it's been a long, long time
by stolethekey
Summary: semi-au where nat goes undercover and everyone else (especially steve) try to cope
1. the mission

**Ch. 1: the mission**

You would think, wouldn't you, that seventy years of pain and heartbreak would warrant some _fun_ once in a while. That after his best friend somehow came back from the dead and then tried to kill him, after his kind-of boss also came back from the dead as some rogue exile, after he spent a day infiltrating the very organization he once worked for with some of his friends just to get shot by his now-evil best friend, fall into a river, and then get dragged out of that river by the aforementioned best friend, all to stop a genocide, he could have some _fun_. Go to the movies, go out for a nice dinner, that kind of thing.

Instead, Steve Rogers is sitting on his couch, picking at a pack of Starburst, because that's all he has, okay, and he doesn't quite have the energy to even pick up his phone to order dinner, let alone buy groceries.

He's pretty sure God, or SHIELD (what's left of it, anyway), or Nick Fury, or whatever divine being is controlling his life had decided that the past month had been too good to him and that he needed some drama. He'd finally gotten Bucky back, had finally started doing missions that he believed in, and he'd been working so closely with Nat that they'd become extensions of each other's thoughts, one unit moving against the enemies of the earth.

Nat. He can still see her, tense, fists clenched, in Fury's office. He'd stared at her through the window for so long, wondering what Fury could possibly be telling her, that he thinks he'll die with that image burned into the back of his eyelids. After four hours, he decided that there was no logical, sane excuse for standing there and staring through the window for any longer, so he'd packed up reluctantly and headed out after one last glance through the glass. He'd gone straight home, too worried to do much else, and parked it on the couch.

They'd come so far since that conversation in the car, driving away from the Apple store. They'd both been alone, both in that moment and for their whole lives. He'd wanted a friend. Her? Maybe not. Or maybe she had. He hadn't been able to read her, then, back before he'd saved her life and realized that he trusted her to save his too.

After that, things were different. They started getting better. Her attempts to get him dates stopped after they'd kissed undercover a second time for reasons he kept himself from thinking about, but her jokes about his age kept him laughing through every knife fight, every gun battle. She'd started to answer his questions honestly. They'd become _friends_.

He's in the middle of wishing he had taken the time to figure out how to work an iPhone, because maybe then he'd actually have some pictures of the two of them, when there's a knock on the door.

Nat's there, because of course she is, with two boxes of what looks and smells like Chinese food, and through the hazy cloud of relief Steve is suddenly aware of the acute hunger that is roaring in his stomach.

She holds the bag up by way of saying hello, and Steve steps aside to let her in.

"What did Fury want? I was surprised that he called you in alone, you know, since we've gotten literally every mission briefing together since he got shot and we thought he'd died. And if you wanna grab two plates from the shelf, I can pull up a movie or something. I got a DVD of that one spy movie, I know you always like laughing at how inaccurate they are—" he stops as he turns around and Nat's face, pale like he's never seen it, comes clearly into focus. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"First of all, grandpa, nobody uses DVDs anymore. I guarantee you that movie's been on Netflix for at least five years."

It's a brave attempt at her usual unbothered demeanor, and maybe anyone else would take it, but Steve's worked with her for too long and they're _friends_ now, damn it, so he notices the little twitch in her eyes and the little slump in her shoulders and decides that Fury is going to pay for whatever happened in that office.

"Also, the only people who _like_ those spy movies are people who work nine-to-five desk jobs and have never seen a gun in their entire life. How difficult would it be to interview a spy or two? Just to get some details? It's not like it's that hard—"

She's rambling, now, and it's so uncharacteristic that Steve can't help but think it's kind of cute, except he's definitely not allowed to think that and it definitely also means that something has rattled Nat pretty badly, so he cuts her off. "What did Fury want?"

"So anyway, you should really ask Sam to set a Netflix account up for you and you should learn how to use it because—"

" _Nat,"_ he says, and the force in his voice surprises even him. "What did he want?"

She stops, finally, and Steve notices that she's only holding one plate. "This is just for you," she says, putting it down in front of him. "I know you don't eat when you're supposed to. I, uh…I won't be around for a while."

"Won't be around," he repeats.

"Yeah. Nick…uh… gave me a mission. Just me. Says you're too recognizable, and it's a solo mission anyway."

"A mission," he repeats, and wonders why he can't seem to formulate his own sentences. With great difficulty, he says, "is it dangerous?"

Nat lets out a bitter laugh. "Aren't they all?" Then, at the look on his face, she sighs. "I mean, yeah. He wants me to go undercover. Apparently, there's some organization out there that's terrorizing cities, stealing food, drugs, weapons, things like that. It wouldn't be anything big, but they're headed up by a guy the police can't stop and who Nick thinks wants to take over every place they're in. Some ex-military guy who calls himself Ammo?"

"So he wants you to—"

"Infiltrate the gang, yeah, and then bring it down from the inside. It could take months, maybe years. I leave tonight, pretty soon. And obviously, I can't have any contact with you, or anyone from this world, or they could find out who I really am. So I, um, just came to say goodbye. Or whatever."

Steve stares at her in stunned silence.

"And I guess—I guess I just wanted to say that I've never, you know, been that close with people I work with, Clint being the obvious exception, and then after he went back to his family and SHIELD was compromised I think I felt really alone, and you helped me find my place in this world and restore my belief in what's right. And I know I'm terrible at emoting, and just handling emotions in general, but if something happens, you know, and I never see you again, I just wanted to make sure you know that you really mean a lot to me and that I never, ever took our partnership for granted."

She's looking at him, now, really looking at him, and there are tears in her eyes that he's never, ever, seen before, not when she watched the big green form of the man she'd finally opened up to vanish from her screen, not when she watched her mentor and boss flatline through a hospital window, not even when she took a bullet to the shoulder, and it's that shocking display of emotion that jolts him back to his senses.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he manages to say, but he can tell it's weak and knows she can too.

"Sure," she says, and there's that look in her eyes again, that look she'd given him a split second before she'd kissed him on that escalator, that look that had flashed for a millisecond when he'd implied that she'd look great in a bikini, that look that had lingered for a little bit longer when he'd been forced to kiss her as they'd snuck a second hard drive out of a lunatic's headquarters and had haunted his dreams for weeks. He wants to hold on to that look for as long as he lives.

Instead, he takes a step toward her and says, with more conviction this time, "Nothing's going to happen to you. You're Natasha Romanoff. The most badass assassin of all time. You hold your own against genetically modified beings and crazy robots engineered to kill you. Ammo won't know what's coming."

Of course, deep down he knows that there's a good chance Ammo also falls into one of those categories, but Nat undoubtedly knows that and besides, she's taken another step towards him and she's _so close_ he can hardly breathe. There's a beat of silence.

"For the record," he murmurs, "you mean a lot to me too. And everything you said about feeling alone and belief systems and all that? You did the same for me. And I'm honored that you chose me as the recipient of your one emotional conversation for the year."

She rolls her eyes, cracks a smile, and says, "Oh, shut up," but before Steve can say anything she's kissing him like he's never been kissed before, and he's kissing her back and it's somehow both exactly like that undercover kiss and nothing like it at the same time. And he feels it, feels that _thing_ inside him that he hasn't felt since he'd looked at Peggy Carter for one last time, that thing he'd pushed down after the escalator and after he'd pinned her against the wall by that vending machine and after the hard drive, except this time it's roaring to life and he can't stop it, doesn't want to stop it. He thinks it's maybe feeding off of the feeling of her arms around his neck, of her back pressed against his hands, and the only thing running through his head is that he wants this to last forever.

Except it doesn't, because some divine being has it out for him and a car honks outside, which causes Nat to pull back.

"Wow," he says, breathlessly, because it's the only thing he has the ability to say at the moment.

She smirks, knowingly, and it's that familiar sight that allows him to regain his vocabulary and sense of humor. "So how do I know this isn't just some spur-of-the-moment, end-of-the-world kind of thing?"

"When have I _ever_ made out with someone because I had to save the world?"

"Well, I don't know, you kissed Bruce right before you pushed him off a cliff, so—"

She shoves him, and they're both laughing, and it's so _them_ that Steve can almost forget that she's only here because she's about to leave for who knows how long, but then the godforsaken car outside honks again and the smile on Nat's face vanishes immediately.

"Listen, I have to go. Keep that burner phone, alright? Don't change your number. Just in case." There's a sort of desperation in her eyes that chills Steve to the bone, and he thinks that if she asked him to climb into a hive of bees with that look in her eyes he would do it.

"Of course," he says, and he grabs her. "Nat—be careful."

"Always," she whispers, and then there's one last kiss on his cheek and she's gone.

When he wakes up the next morning, he wanders into the kitchen and sees a stick of pink bubble gum on the counter that was definitely not there the night before. There's a note attached to it that says:

 _Think we have enough shared life experience, yet? ;) You were right—not being all things to all people can be a tough way to live. Thanks for knowing who I really am, and for being my "all people." —Nat_

It's an obscure reference to that conversation so long ago in that car, the first time they'd really talked about _them_. And even though Steve had laughed at Nat's use of an emoticon, he's now staring at the note with tears streaming down his face because it's _real_ , she's _gone_ , and there's no telling when he'll ever even talk to her again.

Going into work is going to suck.

 **NOTES:**

hello kiddos and welcome to my first ever fic! I wanted to get better at writing narrative-style and although i really love steve/bucky I've been a capwidow stan since the beginning of time, so here we are! come along for the pain ride, set somewhere after winter soldier but only partly, bc bucky is also healthy and sane. I really fucked with the timelines so this is, like, almost an au. Just go with me on this

this fic is VERY heavily inspired by elsaclack's "i've been sleepwalking too close to the fire", found on ao3. i don't know her (so sorry if this is weird lol) but that is probably my favorite fic of all time and is a fic you should all read before you die

all titles, main and chapter, are titles of songs from different mcu scores, because I love pain (and also movie scores)  
If anyone wants a trigger warning for anything, lmk! I'm happy to put 'em

you can find me on tumblr stolethekey! This fic is also on ao3 if you prefer that site (I definitely do)!


	2. a lot to figure out

**Ch. 2: a lot to figure out**

Steve is an hour and a half late to work.

Everyone is staring at him when he walks in, and even though he knows it's probably because he's never been more than thirty-two seconds late his entire life he can't help but feel like they're looking at him because they _know_ , so he tucks his chin and walks up the stairs as quickly as he can without looking like he's escaping from something. He walks through the doors of the briefing room with his head down, muttering apologies, and as he falls into his chair a familiar cough makes him look up.

His heart sinks as he realizes that the briefing room is completely full, save for the empty chair beside him that he can't bear to look at. The only time everyone comes in to the Avengers facility is when there's a high-profile, super important mission that takes more than a few of them, and as he glances around he silently curses the universe for dropping this on him _today_ , of all days. Steve tightens his grip on his shield and silently waits for instructions, hoping that taking out some bad guys will at least take his mind off the woman who should be next to him, trying to get him to laugh through mission briefings and break his consistently professional demeanor.

The instructions never come. Instead, there's a long silence that Steve hardly notices, until he hears Fury clear his throat and say his name.

Steve forces himself to look up into the face of the man who has been the cause of his pain for the last 13 hours, and with great difficulty, says "Yes, sir."

"What was Agent Romanoff doing at your apartment last night?"

It's the last question he's expecting, and it's the last question he wants to answer right now. There's a quiet, cold fury building inside him, and there is a clear warning in his voice when he says "How did you know she was at my apartment?"

"We have other agents living around the area," Fury says, and when Steve is silent he continues to press. "Why was she there? We asked her to go straight to a destination that she was ten minutes late to, thanks to that little detour. If she's told you anything, leaked any private information—"

"She didn't tell me anything," Steve says flatly. "She just came to say goodbye."

Fury looks like he doesn't quite believe him, but something in Steve's face must keep him from continuing that line of questioning, because he switches tack quickly.

"Then who drove her there? She opted not to take her own car, but none of our drivers took her."

Steve shrugs, and the fact that he really could not care less about her driver, of all things, must show on his face, because Fury's face hardens. "This is important, Rogers. Someone we don't know is giving our agent rides. If she's working for someone else, putting this organization in jeopardy—"

He doesn't quite know how it happens, but suddenly Steve is standing with both fists clenched and there's a roaring in his ears that has drowned out the rest of Fury's sentence.

"Don't you _dare_ insinuate—"

"It was me," someone says quickly, and Steve looks down in surprise to see Tony Stark pick his head up off the table. "I drove her."

Whatever answer Fury was expecting, it wasn't this, because he looks more shocked than he did after Bucky shot a bullet through five walls and his back. "You?"

"Yeah, it was me. She called me after your sweet little chat and was practically in hysterics, at least by her standards. Said she wasn't in the mood to drive and asked for a ride. You shouldn't be surprised, you know. I was the first Avenger she knew that wasn't assigned to kill her at first, only I wasn't an Avenger until you couldn't survive without me because I had—what was it? An _unpredictable temperament_."

If Fury hears the end of Tony's jab, he doesn't show it. "Did she say what business she had with Rogers?"

"Like the Captain said. Just wanted to say goodbye." There's a hard edge to Tony's voice, and as Steve stares at him he slowly realizes that he may not be the only one who wants to throw Fury off a cliff for sending Nat on a life-threatening, long-term mission on a five minutes notice.

Fury holds both of their gazes with his one eye, somehow, which Steve thinks is patently unfair, and when neither of them says anything else he sighs. "Fine. I know that she was close to both of you. I'll see you later."

Steve continues staring stonily at the door for long after Fury exits, until he remembers why he's here in the first place.

"Wait," he says, turning back around, "what was the mission?"

He's answered with a mix of raised eyebrows and expressions of concern, and as he opens his mouth in annoyance to repeat his question Tony says, "You."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. We all know she was the one person you really, truly trusted when Bucky was still gone. We all just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay."

"So, what, you called a meeting so that everyone could come and throw their pity at me?" It's unfair, he knows it is, but he's annoyed and he's angry and he's sad and it's the first response that comes into his head.

"No," Clint says quietly. "Nobody called anybody. We all showed up here on our own after Fury told us where he'd sent Nat. We care about you, Cap. We're all on your team."

And he doesn't know if it's because it's Clint, Nat's oldest friend, or if it's because he's just so _tired_ , but Steve feels all the anger and frustration leave his body as he slumps down onto the table in front of him.

"Sorry."

"It's quite alright," Tony says, smirking. "At least you got to, you know, say goodbye. And I think I speak for all of us when I say, _finally_."

"I—wait, what?"

He's greeted by about ten different sighs and ten different eyerolls, and even though this should annoy him he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders instead.

"Okay, fine. You all saw it coming. Happy?"

"Very," Peter Parker pipes up. "I'd like it on the record that I saw something coming before Captain America himself. Can we call the court reporter? Or whoever takes minutes at these meetings?"

Despite himself, Steve feels a grin start to form. "Okay, first of all, you're a sixteen-year-old kid. If you didn't have better eyesight than a seventy-year-old man I'd be concerned."

Tony snorts, and Steve starts to think that maybe this whole experience won't be as bad as he thought, but then Bruce asks "did she tell you how long this would take?" and all the tension is back.

"No," he mutters. "Anywhere from months to years."

His words are met with a general intake of breath, and for some reason he feels responsible, so he follows up with, "It's okay, though. She'll be fine. She's Nat."

It's eerily similar to what he'd said to her the night before, and he winces inwardly at the memory, but it seems to have done the trick.

"Yeah," says Peter, looking marginally more cheerful. "She's the Black Widow! She can do anything, take down anyone. And Ammo is such a stupid name, there's no way that guy is smart enough to outwit her."

"You're right, kid," Tony says, giving Peter a high-five, and it's just naïve teenage optimism, Steve _knows_ it is, but he really wants to believe it.

"I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment," comes Clint's sardonic voice, "but we have to go. Duty calls. See you later, Cap."

Everyone files out the door, patting Steve on the back and murmuring expressions of sympathy on their way out. After he and Tony are the only ones left, Steve stands up to leave, but Tony gets up abruptly and shuts the door.

"Hang on. I wanted to talk to you alone for a sec." Then, seeing Steve's apprehensive look, he says, "Relax, dude. It's nothing bad. Just thought we could have some guy talk, you know?"

"No," Steve says, his apprehension morphing into incredulity, "I don't know."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'll start. I wanted to say that I'm sorry. About Natasha."

"It's not your fault."

"Well, no. But it still sucks."

"Yes," Steve sighs. "It really does."

There's a silence that stretches out for what seems like an eternity, and Steve knows that neither of them can stop thinking about Nat, and what might happen to her, or when she'll come back (if she'll come back). He's in the middle of envisioning a particularly gruesome scene where she gets ripped in two by a group of weird robot-dog hybrids when Tony speaks up.

"Did you know that the first day I met Nat, she kicked Happy's ass in the boxing ring?"

Steve smiles slightly. "She might've mentioned it, but she was always too uncomfortable with talking about herself to go into detail."

Tony snorts. "It was insane. She strolled into my office, pretending to be an assistant, and then I stuck her in the ring with Happy so that I could talk to Pepper. He tried to teach her some moves and she just fucking slammed him into the ground. She decked my head of security in ten seconds! Happy was so mortified afterwards he almost quit."

Steve is full-on grinning, now, and Tony keeps going. "And then, when Rhodey's suit got compromised and was trying to kill me, she snuck into the headquarters to reset it and knocked out like forty guards in the time it took Phil Coulson to beat one. He told me he was so proud of beating his guy until he looked up just to see a hallway lined with bodies and her hair whipping around the corner."

Steve laughs, really laughs, for the first time since the night before, and Tony smiles.

"All I'm saying, Cap, is that men have always underestimated her and her abilities. And they've been proven wrong, time after time. And Ammo is definitely gonna be one of those men, but I think we might be too."

"You're right," Steve says, and he means it. "She'll be okay. Thanks, Tony."

Their eyes meet, and Steve feels something in the air shift.

"You know," Tony says in a low voice, "she may have acted like she was a lone wolf who didn't need friends for a long time, but she did always have our backs."

"Yes," Steve says slowly, "she definitely did."

"And I think it's only right," Tony continues, as if Steve had never spoken, "that we have hers too. At all times."

Something about Tony's tone of voice makes Steve lower his voice and ask, "What are you saying?"

Tony rolls his eyes again (Steve swears to himself that he's going to punch him next time) and says, with an air of infuriating superiority, "I'm saying, _grandpa_ , that just because Nat's on a solo mission doesn't mean she's actually alone. We can work it from here, right? We might not know where she is, but we know what she's generally trying to do and the guy she's ultimately after. There has to be a way we can make her job easier without revealing her identity or tipping off Ammo that the Avengers are behind this. We can _help_ her. We just have to figure out how."

And maybe it's Tony's use of the very dig Nat had used a mere 14 hours before, or maybe it's Steve's body protesting against the amount of sheer pining he's been doing and begging for some actual action, but Steve suddenly thinks that this is the best idea he's ever heard.

When he tells Tony this, Tony grins. "That's what I'd hope you'd say. Now come on. We've got a friend to help."

They both get up, and as Tony opens the door he looks back and says with a smirk, "Or rather, I've got a friend to help. You've got a _girlfriend_ to help."

Steve is the one rolling his eyes, this time, and even as he starts to say "she's not my girl—" he feels something in him swallow his words whole.

He thinks it might be hope.


	3. fury

**Ch. 3: fury**

Nick Fury does not need to be liked.

He has not built a career in espionage and global security as long-lived as his by needing to be liked. What his coworkers, his superheroes, his enemies think of him matters less to him than the fly that sometimes appears in his apartment. (He's not sure if it's the same fly every time. He doesn't care). He is _proud_ of the fact that his work is so unaffected by the feelings of those around him, because allowing emotions to play into something as volatile and dangerous as his job could be disastrous for everyone. Worrying about his reputation would've led to HYDRA completely consuming SHIELD, and then the entire earth. It would've led to Tony Stark still not being a member of the Avengers, probably. It would've led to not even forming the Avengers in the first place, back when all his colleagues told him it was a terrible idea bound to implode violently and spectacularly. Worrying about his reputation could have meant the end of the world as he knows it.

So, no, Nick Fury does not need to be liked.

Which means there is no explanation for the sheer discomfort he's feeling at the moment, locked inside his office by himself. There is no explanation for the way Steve Rogers's face keeps appearing in his mind, full of grief and anger and something else he can't quite place. There's no explanation for the way Tony Stark's description of the night before keeps replaying itself in his head.

"…practically in hysterics, at least by her standards."

Natasha Romanoff. _Hysterical_.

His brain, behind some of the greatest world-saving schemes in history, can't seem to comprehend these two things together. Natasha Romanoff, hysterical? You may as well show him a video of a rat driving a car. The most level-headed person he knows, _hysterical_. In the many years he's known her, she has never, ever lost her cool. She is cold, calculating, and efficient. She was his mentee, and so much like him. Unemotional. Maybe that's what had drawn him to her, had caused him to take her under his wing. He thinks that he saw himself in her, a KGB assassin who had a good heart, who could use her skills to do good instead of bad and could compartmentalize her emotions so that they never interfered with her work.

He has the utmost respect for the other Avengers, but God, they could be so _emotional_.

Romanoff, though? Nick Fury has never known her to be emotional, which is perhaps why he can't stop thinking about Stark's description of her. _Yes_ , he thinks, _that must be it. Not that they might hate me for sending her away._

Because, honestly, he didn't have a choice. Ammo was becoming more and more powerful, consolidating his holdings while somehow simultaneously keeping them spread-out, so that it would have been impossible for the Avengers to just go in and blow things up or beat some people up. No, this had to be taken down from the inside. It had to be a process. And Romanoff, with her extensive undercover experience and the ability to be subtle and unrecognizable, was the only person for the job. She'd done it plenty times before, and even she'd agreed that nobody else could do it.

He thinks that he just can't figure out why she was so upset about it, but even as he starts to ponder the question, Steve Rogers's grief-stricken face swims into his mind. He glances at the briefing room camera in front of him and sees the group gathered around Rogers, concern and sympathy written all over everyone's features.

 _Oh._

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, but then suddenly feels like something he should have seen a long time ago. Of _course_ this wasn't just like her old missions. Things were different now. She'd started to trust more people, started to open up to the people she'd worked with (or someone she'd worked with, anyway). She had other people to live for, now.

It's something he probably should have realized earlier.

But Nick Fury has never been one to dwell on the past, beyond a cursory composition of a "what I can do better next time" list, and he is not about to change now. Doing so would just lead to a loss of focus on the mission at hand, and that cannot happen. Now that he understands, now that he _knows_ , he cannot do anything that could put her and her mission in jeopardy. He owes it to her, he thinks. She deserves, after all these years, to be happy, and if Steve Rogers makes her happy? He will die before he deprives her of that. Well, deprives her of that again.

As he glances at his security cameras again, he sees Rogers and Stark leaving the briefing room together. A closer look reveals that they're smiling and laughing.

Wait.

Smiling and laughing? The same man who looked like he was about to cry, or punch through a wall, or both, just an hour ago? Something happened in that briefing room after Fury left. Something changed.

And then it clicks. That other emotion in Rogers's face? It was _helplessness._ And Fury is no stranger to helplessness. He's worked with and against enough helpless people to know that the emotion elevates other emotions like grief and anger, but the opposite, he knows, is also true. When helplessness vanishes, grief and anger go with it, replaced by hope and a bare desire to get things done.

In Stark's and Roger's case, he thinks, this can lead to recklessness.

It doesn't take long for Fury to realize that they've decided to help Romanoff. He knows them well enough to know that they will stop at no lengths to help their friends. But he also knows them well enough that they are anything but subtle, and that their attempts to assist Romanoff's mission will more than likely lead to a blown cover, and even worse, a blown mission. In this case, a blown mission means hundreds of more civilian deaths and that Romanoff may never return alive. And no matter what he says about never making friends, he has come to care for his mentee.

So he makes a decision.

"Under no circumstances are any of you to reach out to Romanoff or attempt to help her mission in any way until she calls for the final bust. Understood?"

The briefing room audience stares at him, the looks on their faces ranging from mild surprise to shock and anger, and Fury takes their silence as an invitation to keep talking.

"This mission is _dangerous_. You all know that. More importantly, it's a solo mission. And it's a solo mission for a reason. Ammo has caught and killed four spies from other organizations, trying to do the same thing Agent Romanoff is currently doing. _Any_ interference from an outside source, no matter how subtle you think you're being, means he finds out that we're behind this and that you'd be lucky to get a strand of Romanoff's hair to bury."

Rogers is on his feet again, and as Fury tells him to sit down with as much force as he can muster, he feels a pang of something he thinks might be sympathy.

"You can't control what I do in my free time as long as I don't use SHIELD resources," Rogers spits.

"Maybe not," Fury says harshly. "But I _can_ control your standing with the Avengers. And if I catch you working that case, you're done. Understand? You work that case, and you're off the team."

"Then we'll do it ourselves," comes a determined voice from the back of the room, and Fury's surprised eye finds Wanda Maximoff raising herself out of her chair. Her words are met with nods and mutters of assent, and as those around her start to stand too Fury feels his patience wearing thin.

"No," he snarls, "You won't. Because if you do, if any of you do, I'm kicking Rogers out all the same. Anyone works this case, Cap is gone. None of you want that, do you?

It is perhaps lucky that everyone starts shouting at him at once, because through the absolute mutiny of voices Fury cannot understand a single one.

"I know that this is not ideal," he says, eye glittering and looking straight at Rogers, "but it's what needs to happen if she is to live through this. And I'd much rather not, but I will force you to comply if I have to."

Steve's grip tightens on his shield and the edges of his face whiten, but Fury pretends not to notice. He needs Agent Romanoff to come back alive. And as he dismisses the meeting and walks out to a cacophony of angry voices, he continues to tell himself that he does not need to be liked.

Wanda Maximoff is good at reading people.

And yes, sure, part of that is her literal ability to manipulate minds, but part of that is also genuine, human emotional intelligence that comes from the mutual dependency she and her brother had developed when they were being experimented on. She's learned to identify emotions easily, even when their owner has repressed them, even when they only appear as a mere flicker across a face or as a quick flash in a pair of eyes.

But it doesn't take an emotions expert to notice that Steve Rogers has not been this distraught since he'd had to fight his best friend to the possible death on a warship. Granted, Wanda thinks, that wasn't that long ago, but Steve has had a rough life and he deserves as many breaks as he can get, which is why she finds herself outside Agent Maria Hill's office immediately after the briefing room meeting.

She's never really talked to Hill before, which is probably the explanation for the surprise on her face when she opens the door and ushers Wanda in.

"So," she says pleasantly, "how can I help you?"

And before she knows it, Wanda has launched into a half-tirade, half-sob-session about the entire situation, and about what Steve is going through, and "Fury said he won't let us help and if any of us try to he'll fire Steve, but we're all afraid she's going to _die,_ Agent, and if she does this team is probably going to fall apart anyway because everyone will hate Fury even more than they do now and nobody's gonna listen to him ever again. I know we'd just ignore his orders and work the case anyway, except we're worried that if our attention is divided on keeping info from both him _and_ Ammo we'll be overstretched and both of them might find out and Nat could _die_ , what if she dies, Maria, what do we do then?"

It's an incoherent, rambling mess, but it centers on a fear that Wanda hadn't even realized she'd had, she'd been so focused on her colleagues.

Maria stares at her for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "I know this is hard for you, and for everyone, but I really don't know what I can do."

"Can you help us, or something, aren't you her handler?" Wanda asks desperately, "Please, Maria, if we don't act and Nat gets killed Steve is going to be moping around the facility for _years_ , he can't lose two of the loves of his life before he even gets anywhere with them, it just isn't _fair_ —"

"I answer directly to Nick," Maria says, not unkindly. "I'm afraid I can't undermine him so directly. He already has me checking in with her periodically, tracking her progress—"

"This isn't about her _progress_ ," Wanda nearly screeches, "it's about her _life._ We can't just sit here and do nothing while she's out there, possibly dying, and we don't even know—"

"Wanda," Maria interrupts firmly, "I can't help you, no matter how badly I want to. I'm sorry. My hands are tied."

And as Wanda sees her own pain and powerlessness flash in Maria's eyes, she wonders what the point is of being able to read emotions if it can't help her at all.


	4. it begins

**Ch. 4: it begins**

Natasha Romanoff is no stranger to going undercover.

She's done it plenty of times before, both with the KGB and SHIELD, and she's become good at it. Slipping into a separate personality, a new character, has become almost second nature for her. The people she'd worked with had never quite been able to conceal their real identities like she could; her undercover personas completely and utterly obscured her real one. She had become so accustomed to fake identities that she kept the real one very, very close to her heart. On an undercover mission, discovery of her true identity meant pain and death, and she (perhaps unwillingly) had brought that philosophy into her non-undercover life. For decades, no one except Natasha Romanoff knew who Natasha Romanoff really was.

Enter: Steve Rogers.

It's not that he was the first to truly know her; that title belongs to Clint, who will always be her best and oldest friend. But opening up to Clint had been a conscious, deliberate, decision; he had saved her, both literally and spiritually, when nobody else would have, and she figured that it was the least she could do.

Steve, on the other hand, had slowly pried away the walls she had spent her entire life building without her even noticing. With every battle, every car chase, he'd gotten closer and closer to her until suddenly she'd realized that he knew more about her than anyone else, that he'd somehow broken through her defenses without triggering a single alarm. Maybe, subconsciously, she had let him in.

At first, she'd been turned off by his red, white, and blue suit and his glaring shield. How could someone with an outfit and weapon of choice that screamed, "Here I come now! Everyone hide!" work covert missions at all? She'd hated the brashness of it all, and the way his physical and spiritual prominence announced his presence whenever he walked into a meeting (or a dark engine room that they were supposed to _sneak into,_ damn it) had caused her to grind her teeth so much that she'd had to start wearing a mouth guard.

After a while, though, she'd come to discover that there was a method to his madness. She'd seen his strength in action, seen the shield defeat more enemies than she could count. His presence commanded a certain respect that nobody else could earn quite as quickly, and his outfit had quickly become a rallying point, a symbol of unification that people took to immediately. He inspired a sort of hope in people, a sort of pride. She supposes there was some benefit to his bold demeanor, even though she still rolls her eyes thinking about the time he allowed a puny human man to bait him into a five-minute fistfight that could have been ended with one swipe of a shield. And he had the nerve to tell _her_ she was wasting time transferring data onto a hard drive. _Men._ And their damn _egos_.

In most ways, however, he'd ended up becoming the perfect partner. His work style became the perfect counterbalance to hers: his strength paired well with her agility, his bold leadership with her stealth and quiet dexterity, his straightforward combat style with her strategic craftiness. They elevated each other's strengths and covered each other's weaknesses with an ease that she had yet to find with anyone else.

It's a shame, she thinks, that they hadn't had time to explore that partnership on a more personal level.

Nat sinks down into her couch with a sigh, staring at the wall across from her. She knows it's shared with her neighbor, a low-level drug dealer by the name of Matthew Murdock. Or, if she plays her cards right, her ticket in.

When there's no movement after a few minutes, she allows her gaze to wander around the rest of the apartment. It's sparsely furnished; she's supposed to be a nomadic criminal who can't afford to "settle down" anywhere, after all. The parallels to her own early spy life were not lost on her; they'd made her scoff derisively when Fury had given her the assignment a few days before.

"I have a mission for you," he'd said, without preamble, as she'd closed the door behind her.

"Oh, okay. Let me get Steve, he's just right out there—"How naïve she'd been, how hopeful.

"No," he'd interrupted, "Just you. It's an undercover mission, and Rogers is far too recognizable. His face is plastered all over every television in the country. Besides, it needs to only be one person."

"Okay," she'd said slowly, "What is it?"

"There's an ex-military, Vietnam veteran who's taking over the streets. Calls himself Ammo. He's going from borough to borough, completely overturning governments, taking control of New York without any consideration for whom he kills."

"Wouldn't we have seen that on the news, or heard it from the Council, or something?"

"Everyone's scared. They don't know how he does it. It starts with low-level drug deals, and then it goes to weapons deals, and suddenly he's in charge of the whole place. Besides, no one wants to admit that their precious security mechanisms and systems have failed so quickly and so drastically. Admitting that means you have to fight this guy, and no one wants to be an enemy to Ammo. It's suicide. The only way to take him down is from the inside, and that's where you come in."

Nat wanted to say that trying to take down this operation from the inside also sounded a lot like suicide. Instead, she asked, "How long?"

"However long it takes their empire to fall," he'd said simply. "Anywhere from months to years."

A drum line started to make its way through Nat's head.

Nick held her gaze for an uncomfortably long time, giving Nat the impression that he was reading her mind. "The FBI has already sent someone to try infiltrating their gang, as have three other private espionage agencies, but they've all been caught and their agents slaughtered. I wouldn't be asking you to do this if I didn't have to, Agent Romanoff. But you're the best in the world at what you do. If anyone can do this, you can."

Nat had given him a single nod. Then, feeling like he was expecting more, she'd forced herself to say, "Yes, sir. I can do it. I'll do it."

"Thank you, Agent. You're going to save a lot of lives."

"Yep," she'd said, mind and body numb. "That's the job. So what do I need to know? Hit me."

And hit her he had. The rest of the meeting passed in a haze of shock and fear and then panic. Her brain must've recognized her body shutting down and gone into KGB-mode, because she somehow knows all the important mission-related facts Fury told her, but she can't remember actually standing there and listening to them. All Nat remembers is running out of that office to Steve's room, just to find it empty, and then she was in Tony's car and rattling off a memorized address that he must have recognized, but he'd taken one look at her face and started driving without saying a word.

She doesn't know why her brain, on autopilot, had taken her to Steve's, but her theory is that it was so desperate for a last-ditch attempt at what might have been that it took her there. An end-of-the-world type of thing, so to speak.

 _Ha,_ she thinks. _Maybe Steve was right after all._ The thought brings her little comfort.

She'd shown up at his doorstep with a pack of pink bubble gum and some Chinese food that she doesn't remember buying and a hastily scribbled note in her hand that she'd written on the way there.

It had taken some thought, since emotional soliloquies and long love letters were not exactly her thing, but she'd settled on something she thought communicated her feelings in a distinctly Nat way, and in a way that only he would understand. Expressions of gratitude were not her forte, but she thinks she did okay here. Referencing their very first real, substantial conversation and leaving a token of the first time they'd found that the other was the only person they could trust? Some might say she was downright romantic. She'd left it on the kitchen counter, along with the pink bubblegum, and he hadn't even noticed. Subtlety had always been her thing, after all.

The old Natasha might have insisted that it was a debt repayment for what he had done for her, that it was just to wipe out some red on her ledger. Current, slightly-more-in-touch-with-her-emotions Natasha, though, knows that she left it as a reminder of how far they'd come as a duo and maybe a reminder of the potential that had yet to be fulfilled, too, but mostly to thank him for what he'd done for her.

 _Thanks for knowing who I really am, and for being my "all people."_

Natasha is no stranger to going undercover—but this time, it seems harder.

It gets even harder when Agent Hill calls her to check in.

"No, Maria, I haven't been able to do anything. Nothing's happened yet, and I can't exactly force myself onto people," she whispers, exasperated, "These things take time. Tell Nick to be patient."

"He usually would be, but everyone here is clamoring for us to speed this up as much as possible. Word on the street is that you'll die." Maria sounds tired.

Nat rolls her eyes. "I'm not gonna die. They know I'm not gonna die."

"Yes, well, people seem to think that you might, because Cap was ready to come fight the entire gang for you yesterday, and everyone else seemed fairly keen on the idea."

Nat ignores the little skip her heart takes. "Of course he was."

"But he's not, because Nick told him that if anybody does, Cap gets kicked out of the Avengers."

" _What?"_ She yells, forgoing all sense of subtlety. "He threatened to _fire_ him? He can't do that, Steve's his best guy! And the team is all he has, he doesn't even—he doesn't even have _me_ anymore. Where would he go? What would he do? He doesn't have any other options! And he's my—my friend, I'm literally only here because Nick ordered me to be, he owes me this, that is so _ridiculously_ unfair, let me talk to Nick, I need to beat some sense into him—"

"Relax," Maria says, and if Nat didn't know better she'd think she hears a slight smile in Maria's voice, "We've got it all under control here. And you know you can't talk to Nick, it'd violate our safety protocol."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Okay," and Maria's definitely smiling this time, "talk to you soon. Stay safe, agent."

"Yep." Nat ends the call and slides her SHIELD-issued burner phone back into her pocket, wondering if she should maybe order some food. Chinese food, maybe. Just for irony's sake. She's picked up the menu on her coffee table and is scanning their seafood options when there's a knock on the door.

Suddenly alert, Nat sits up and stares at the door for a second before grabbing her gun from underneath the couch and walking towards it. She cracks it open a few inches and finds herself looking at an unfamiliar man timidly shifting from foot to foot.

"Hi," he says, "Um, I'm your neighbor, room 305." Nat registers this as Murdock's apartment and quickly rearranges her expression into one of interest. "I heard you talking on the phone, and, uh, just wanted to say that I'm sorry your friend got fired. It sounded pretty serious, and I know you just moved in, so this must be really rough for you. I just wanted to see if I could help, you know, build some furniture or something. Moving is a pain, and having friend issues probably doesn't help."

Nat snorts internally and thinks, _you have no idea_. After searching his eyes for any sign of deceit, she decides that he really is just being nice. The file did say he was a decent person, just caught up with the wrong crowd, after all. Besides, she thinks, sizing him up, if it turns out that he has bad intentions, she'd definitely be able to take him. A little action could be just what she needs to snap out of this emotional funk she's been in the past two days.

So she opens the door a little wider and says "Thanks, but I've already built all my furniture. If you want to come in, though, I was just about to order dinner and would love some company. It gets a little lonely, you know, in a new place surrounded by new people."

"Yeah! Absolutely. I remember what it was like, just getting started around here." He extends his hand toward her. "I'm Matthew. Matthew Murdock."

She takes it. "Anna. Nice to meet you."

"You have a last name?"

Natasha inhales deeply, steels herself, and then says, "Yeah. Vanko."

Shock and awe flash through his eyes. "Vanko? Like, the infamous Vanko family?"

She smiles thinly. "The very one."

He nods, face filled with a new respect, and as she ushers him through the door Nat feels her heart pounding in her chest.

 _Here we go,_ she thinks. _No turning back now._

 **Notes:**

hi everyone from now on i'm only gonna update this on sundays, every week! these few chapters have come out really fast bc i've been banging them out, but giving myself more time will let me flesh out chapters and write longer chapters. also, you guys get more structure and will actually know when things are coming. if you hate this lmk, but otherwise i'm gonna stick to it!

if i end up doing one-shots, i might post them in between. you can send me prompts if u want on tumblr stolethekey


	5. get help

**Ch. 5: get help**

Notes:

LMAO I KNOW IT'S NOT AN MCU SCORE TITLE BUT I COULDN'T HELP IT

Loki Laufeyson Odinson is many things.

Prince of Asgard. The Rightful King of Jotunheim. God of Mischief. On his better days, Odin's son. A thief, a swindler. A god.

But he is not, and has never been, predictable.

It may appear that he does not plan his moves before he makes them, but in reality, every action he takes is carefully thought out and the result of a convoluted scheme he has sketched out in his mind. He has become adept at reading the universe, at placing himself in situations where he gets everything he wants. Lesser mortals may call it fate. He calls it intelligence.

It must be intelligence, because there is no other explanation for him being back on earth, walking through the streets of New York on a balmy October afternoon. He refuses to believe that _fate_ would have him walk through the streets of this too-loud city filled with skyscrapers and people running late to their next meetings. Something in the back of his mind, an instinct, perhaps, had led him here.

He's strolling along some Avenue (Fifth? Maybe Sixth? It's really kind of pathetic that humans have to _number_ their streets to make it easier to find things), mentally redesigning the buildings to look regal and more spacious when he barrels right into a woman who was presumably walking down the sidewalk toward him.

"My apologies, I must not have been looking—" He freezes.

He's staring into a pair of very, very familiar green eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, but before anything comes out he sees her eyes flash with panic and then a pair of rough hands is forcing him back against the wall.

"You better watch yourself, dude! Watch where you're going!" An unfamiliar man's face is inches from Loki's, and Loki is seconds away from summoning his dagger when he sees Natasha Romanoff vehemently shaking her head over the man's shoulder.

Loki blinks and holds both hands up. "Sorry."

The man mutters something under his breath and releases Loki after giving him one last shove. Loki stays where he is as the duo continues walking down the sidewalk and rounds the corner, thinking that if he allows himself to move he will surely end the man's life and then he'd have to face Romanoff, which is not something he particularly wants to do at the moment.

After about a minute, he decides it's safe for him to move again and pushes himself off of the wall. He has just resumed his leisurely stroll when he sees a lithe figure sprinting toward him. He stops and waits for Natasha to stop in front of him, hair whipping in the wind.

"There's no time to explain," she says hurriedly. "If you see me again, call me Anna. Where can I find you later?"

Loki feels himself recoil, but his brain is curious and his instincts are making his heart pound, so he tells her. She gives him a brisk nod and then disappears down the street. This, Loki thinks, is what that little voice in the back of his head was telling him. This is why he's in New York.

Romanoff shows up at his door late that night.

"Anna! What a surprise!" Loki says sardonically, opening the door to let her in. She rolls her eyes and gestures at him to shut the door, and when he does, she drops into one of his antique armchairs, suddenly looking much more tired than she had a mere second before.

He drags a second chair across from her and sits down, folding his hands and looking at her expectantly. When she doesn't speak, he sighs and says, "Do I really have to call you Anna?"

"Yes." She answers without looking up. "From now on, I'm Anna Vanko. To you and all your friends."

Vanko. The name echoes deep inside Loki's memory, but he remembers. Some of the worst people on Midgard, the Other had said. Get them to help you if you can.

Loki raises his eyebrows. "You're going around telling people you're a part of the Vanko crime family? For what, exactly?"

"I've been undercover for a month. I told Matthew that I was the Vanko weapons dealer, and that I moved here because I was being hunted by authorities. He bought it pretty easily."

"And it's just you?"

She slowly raises her head and meets his eyes for the first time. There's an emptiness in her gaze that Loki feels deep within his gut.

"Yep." Her voice is hollow. "It always is."

And then it all comes out: Fury giving her the mission, showing up at Steve Roger's house, being sent into another life just as the old one was starting to fit. She tells him everything, voice cracking every so often but still steadily growing stronger, and when she finishes Loki feels strangely like this was a bizarre therapy session he never trained for.

He doesn't quite know what to say, so he stands and pours her a glass of water that she downs in seconds.

"Thanks," she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "That's much better."

There's a beat.

"When I said it's always just me, earlier—I didn't mean that the others abandoned me or anything, they've always been there. It's just that I thought I was finally done with the whole only-trusting-myself thing, and the whole secret-identity thing, and then suddenly there's this huge mission that I have to do myself and if I'd never been an Avenger it would've been fine, but after you've been a part of something like that going back is just _so hard_ —"

Loki smiles slightly. "Yes," he says, "I understand. So that terrible guy you were with earlier—"

"That's Matt. My neighbor. He doesn't know it, but he's helping me get into Ammo's operation, which is why it's a good thing you didn't flay him alive earlier."

He snorts. "I still haven't ruled it out."

She grins, and he takes it as an invitation to ask more questions.

"So, no contact with the squad for a month?"

"None whatsoever. Contact is strictly forbidden. My handler is the only exception; she's the only person from that life I've spoken to in four weeks. Besides you, I guess." There's a flicker deep in the depths of her eyes that Loki takes to mean that the isolation is affecting her more than she wants to admit, and in the back of his mind he hears his brother's voice. " _Life is about growth. It's about change. You'll always be the God of Mischief, but you could be more_."

"I think I may be able to…assist you."

She blanches. "What?"

"I'm here, aren't I? And I, like you, have a good amount of experience with secrets and hiding and tricking people. I once tried to completely obliterate the earth, so Ammo definitely won't believe I want to help _save_ it."

"Do you?" She asks, suspicion creeping into her voice. "Want to save it?"

"Well, not exactly, but I don't necessarily want it destroyed, either. I'm impartial to the fate of your world as is. But I've been working on my relationship with my brother, you see, and Thor seems to hold your little team in very high esteem, so if I can keep you from falling apart then I probably should. Also, if your world gets destroyed, so does the group, and Thor will be pouting for at least a thousand years if that happens. And he's a _nightmare_ when he's sad, you have no idea. So I do have some interest in this mission of yours."

She stays silent, and he says, hesitantly, "I can also—I may be able to put you in contact with your friends. I do have some connections, you know."

"That's _far_ too dangerous, what if someone finds out—"

"Oh, come on," he interrupts, "you _know_ you want to see Steve Rogers."

He's hit a nerve, he can tell. She physically pulls back, eyes narrowing, and says, "I don't trust you. You almost destroyed my best friend, and you definitely don't help people for free."

"For _free_? Haven't I just told you? I also have a stake in this fight." He sighs. "Fine. If it helps, I do want something else, too."

"What?"

"Immunity. Like I said, I have a good relationship with Thor now, but that may be difficult to maintain if I have to keep avoiding your Avengers or getting into little skirmishes with your people. I help you save the world, and you convince your team that I'm no longer a villain."

"Where _is_ Thor, anyway?"

"Oh, you know, bouncing between realms, saving people, good ol' Thor stuff. He will return to Earth soon enough, though, and it would much easier for the two of us if I am no longer a wanted man. Last time we were here, your wizard friend caught me as soon as we arrived and made me fall through his damn portals for _thirty minutes_. Like I said, I have a big incentive to clear my name with Earth's defenders."

"So how have you—how are you still here, then?"

"Well, I wondered that same thing at first, but now it seems like everyone is too preoccupied with your fate to worry about a god appearing in New York, especially as I haven't done anything wrong. I'm sure if I caused a disturbance they'd notice, though."

She studies him. "Why did you suddenly decide to make up with Thor?"

He's being interrogated now, and he knows it, so Loki sighs and tells her about the past few years on Asgard: Odin's death, Hela's reappearance, the Grandmaster, Thor finding Bruce—

"Wait," she says suddenly. "Bruce was there?"

" _That's_ what you're focused on? We almost _died_ , and all you care about is your big green friend?"

"Yep." There's a peculiar tone in her voice. "Tell me about Bruce."

"Well," Loki says reluctantly, "he seemed pretty disoriented and shocked to find himself on another planet. Apparently, he'd been the Hulk for two years and couldn't remember much. Then he was super scared he wouldn't be able to control the Hulk if he turned green again; the two of them are having some relationship issues, I think. He had to eventually, to save a bunch of Asgardians from a giant wolf, but I think he's okay now? I don't know if they ever worked their struggles out—how do you do that with someone inside you, anyway? Is there therapy, or something?"

"Okay," Romanoff says, squaring her shoulders, "you can help me. We can do this together."

"Wait, what? _That_ made you trust me? Not my extremely touching story of reconciliation with my brother, whom you've worked with for years?"

"Nobody knows that Bruce has struggled with the Hulk except us," she explains. "A lot of people know what happened when the two of you came to find Odin—Strange told us. And word about what happened on Asgard spread fairly quickly after Bruce got back. But his problems with his green friend? He hasn't told anyone about that, it isn't public information. If people knew they'd panic. It'd be chaos. So the only people who know are the Avengers, and—" she gestures toward Loki "—the people who Thor trusted enough to tell."

"But if Bruce told you what happened," he says slowly, "didn't you already know about everything? Why make me tell the entire story again?"

She hesitates, and then says, "I wanted to see if you'd tell the truth."

"The truth."

"Yes, the truth. The Loki I knew would never have told a story he knew painted him in a less-than-perfect light. He would've lied and tried to weasel his way out of it."

"Ah." Again, his brother's voice: _Seems like you're not so bad, after all._

She smiles. "But you were right. You've grown. And that means I'm willing to work with you." She reaches her hand out and Loki shakes it. "So what's your plan?"

"Oh, well, I was going to pass by the facility on my morning walk tomorrow anyway. Figured I'd just pop in and say hello."

She stares at him, looking like she very much regrets forming an alliance with him. "You can't just show up there, they'll arrest you on the spot—"

He grins. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

Loki is sitting in an interrogation room in the Avengers facility exactly twelve hours later.

He hums to himself, allowing himself to look around the room. They've really gone overboard this time, he thinks, taking in the extra shackles around his ankles and the five locks on his handcuffs. He doesn't even have the heart to be annoyed, so excited he is to finally have a purpose beyond wandering around the streets of New York. He stares through the two-way window, wondering who's standing behind it and what they're whispering about.

His thoughts are cut short as Tony Stark and Steve Rogers stalk through the doorway, slamming the door behind them. Stark looks alright, if a little tired, Loki notices, but Rogers…does not. His hair looks like it hasn't been combed or brushed in weeks, his skin is somehow even paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes that remind him unpleasantly of Hela's eye makeup.

"Listen," Rogers snarls, "We do not have time for your bullshit today. So if you could just cooperate, for once in your life, you'll make it easier for all of us."

"Actually—"

Tony slams both hands on the table, making both Loki and Rogers jump, and as Loki takes a closer look he realizes that both men have the same fury and desperation in their eyes. "You ever hear about the Vanko family while you were out there trying to blow up the city?"

Natasha's face flashes in his mind. "That's actually why I'm—"

"Anton Vanko tried to kill me with my _own invention_. The only thing that stopped him was an agent by the name of Natasha Romanoff. And she happens to be gone, gone on a mission that could've been unnecessary if this godforsaken organization had just _paid attention_. We don't know if, or when, she's ever coming back. And now I'm hearing that _apparently,_ there's another Vanko, roaming the streets of New York, probably planning to blow a bunch of shit up. So you'll forgive us if we don't treat you with our usual deference, _my lord_."

Loki snorts, because technically, well, he's not wrong, and leans forward slightly. Both men are glaring at him, but beneath the bravado Loki can still see the pain and fear in their eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd say he felt _sorry_ for them.

"It's not a real Vanko," he says softly, a smile spreading over his face. "It's _Romanoff_. She's trying to use the name to get into the heart of the weapons black market, because Ammo owns a lot of it."

Loki leans back, savoring the shock that passes over both of their faces.

"How do you know about Ammo? And how do you know it's her?" Rogers's voice is accusatory, but there's a sliver of hope behind it that nearly breaks Loki's heart.

"I—quite literally—ran into her yesterday, on the street. She came over last night, told me everything. We've formed a sort of alliance."

"An _alliance_?"

Loki bites back a joke about the elderly going deaf because, well, this is not the time, and says, "Yes, an alliance. I help her through the mission, she lobbies for my immunity with your crew. Plus, I help my brother. We actually have quite a good relationship now. Don't tell your boss, though."

They both look suspicious, but Loki can tell they dearly want to believe him, and he plays his final and best card.

"She wrote you guys a note. It's in my coat pocket, if you want to grab it. She said to burn it after you read it, though." She'd scribbled it right before she'd left, telling him to give it to them when (not if) they didn't believe him. He'd read it quickly, noticing her distinct handwriting, before pocketing it.

 _Tony, Steve,_ it says, _don't be idiots. Loki's alright. Remember Budapest_. _Also, I miss you guys._

"Budapest isn't even our thing," Stark complains, "It's hers and Barton's."

"True," Rogers says, smiling slightly, "But it's something only she would know to reference. And only she would know the operations here well enough to know that the two of us would be the ones to interrogate Loki."

"Exactly," Loki says, and the two of them look quickly back at him as if they'd forgotten he was there. He holds up his cuffs. "So, if you don't mind—"

After he's been released, Loki rubs his wrists and looks ruefully at both of them. "Should we talk here, then? Or should I give you two a minute to—what's the phrase—freak out?"

Stark looks at Rogers, who lets the dig slide. "Meet me in my room. Up the stairs, fourth door on the right. There aren't cameras in there. We'll go first; give us five minutes so that we can burn this note and then turn off the cameras in the hallway until you get there."

Loki nods, and as the two others exit the room, he hears Rogers mutter, "Romanoff, you _brilliant bastard_."

Notes:

lmao fanfiction dot net keeps messing up my formatting

also I got a question about this so I just wanna make it very clear that em (elsaclack) 100% knows about this and has given me her approval! She's actually also read it and said she really loves what I'm doing with it, which is a big relief for me. So y'all don't have to worry about the ethics of this, lol, and if you want proof you can head over to ao3 and find this fic, she's commented on that with 100% positive things. She's a really lovely person and I'm honored that she likes/has approved this work.


	6. a small price (a)

**Notes:**

okay, so, two things:  
1) sorry this took so long! there's just a lot of Drama™ in my life right now. to make up for it I wrote a longer chapter  
2) I got a rather passive-aggressive guest review (lol) and while I'd usually just ignore it the person did bring up something that I wanted to address! like I said before, this work is inspired by elsaclack's _sleepwalking_ fic, which can be found on ao3. Em (elsaclack) not only knows about this fic, but has read it (or at least parts of it) and is nothing but supportive of it. I take artistic integrity very seriously, and she is an incredible person and an incredible writer and I would never in a million years be writing this fic if she didn't want me to. not to toot my own horn, but if you don't believe me, feel free to head to this fic on ao3 (same title, same pseudonym) and you'll find that she's left a very kind comment on it complimenting my writing (it honestly added five years to my life bc I was v insecure about this and kind of still am) and expressing her support.

Sorry for that longass note section! I just really wanted to clear that up. Anyway. Enjoy! And find me on tumblr stolethekey

All things considered, Natasha should be happy.

It's been two months since she's gone undercover, and things are finally getting somewhere. She'd convinced (read: manipulated) Matt into dropping her name into conversation with Charlie, one of his Ammo-crew friends, and after a couple days of consistent and subtle hints, Charlie had called his fellow mob bosses with news that he had connections to a Vanko who was looking for business.

He'd come back with news that they were all _dying_ to meet her.

So the mission is finally moving along, and Natasha should be happy.

As she walks slowly down the stairs of a disgusting dive bar on the east side of town, however, she can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of finality that is slowly evolving into an inescapable feeling of dread. She can hear Matt breathing behind her, can smell the stench of dirty bathrooms coming from below, and even as she straightens her spine and tosses her now-blonde hair back she can't help but feel like she's walking into something she may not come out of.

At the end of the staircase, Charlie looks back and smiles. "Relax. You'll be great."

She nods as he heads to a side door and unlocks it, and as he opens the door and beckons her in Natasha takes a deep breath and allows her undercover persona to seep into her veins. _No more pretending to be Anna Vanko_ , she tells herself. _From now on, you ARE Anna Vanko._

Natasha steps into a room the size of Steve's entire apartment. There's a large dining table in the middle, surrounded by men laughing, smoking, and eating bar food. She looks back at Charlie, who clears his throat, and the noise immediately dies, leaving a silence that is both tense and expectant at the same time.

"Ah, Charlie," a man says, standing. Natasha feels a rush of inexplicable dislike. "Nice of you to show up." He's grinning in a way that makes Natasha hate him immediately.

"Hi, Aaron." Charlie beckons Nat forward. "This is Anna. And you've met her neighbor, Matt."

Aaron steps forward and, completely ignoring Matt, looks Nat up and down. "You're the Vanko?"

"That's right." Her voice is cool and steady, and if she wasn't completely focused on the job at hand Nat would be proud at how easily she's slipped back into dangerous, high-stakes undercover conversation. She offers her hand and he takes it.

He continues to study her, eyes narrowed. "Rough hands. Not what you would expect from a lady."

Nat can feel her blood start to boil, and when she speaks her voice is hard as flint. "You don't become an international criminal by being afraid to get your hands dirty."

He meets her eyes for a moment before grunting. "What's your job?"

She tilts her chin up. "Arms dealing, mostly. Anything standard-practice you need, I can get. Plus military-grade, some high-tech stuff."

She has the room's attention now, and she knows Aaron can feel the guys behind him shift with interest.

"You could be useful," he grunts. "But you're gonna need to show us what you can do first."

"Naturally."

"Wednesday, eight o'clock. In front of the abandoned warehouse by those docks. Your neighbor knows where it is."

She gives him a grim smile. "See you there."

Steve Rogers has started to clean Natasha's apartment.

In his defense, the first time was a bit of an accident. She'd always had her apartment lights set up so that they turned on automatically every night for a few hours in case she was out late working a case (or got sent on a long-term undercover mission, but anyway), just to give the illusion that she was home. Standard travel behavior to prevent a burglary, where the valuables in question were files full of classified information rather than televisions or computers.

One night, in the middle of an 11 o'clock weapons-deal bust, Steve had glanced up and realized two things: that he was in front of Nat's apartment building, and that her lights weren't on.

He'd gone straight to Maria Hill, and after a lot of asking and wheedling (read: abject begging) she'd given him the spare key to her apartment with something infuriatingly similar to pity in her eyes.

"Only to check the lights. Then that key comes straight back here."

He'd agreed, of course, then taken the key straight to Tony, who met his request with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

"Please," Steve had said. "It's a high-security key, obviously, so nobody can copy it. You're the only one with the technology and intelligence to do it."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Tony had said, smirking, even as he reached his hand out to take it. "What are you going to use it for? Nat wouldn't like anyone snooping around her apartment, you know, and as precious as your ass is I don't think she'd make an exception for it."

"Just for emergencies." Then, at Tony's skeptical look, he'd added, "I'm only going to check the lightbulbs, like I told Hill, and then I'll keep it just in case. That way I don't have to run to SHIELD every time something happens. I'm not going to, like, cry into her pillows or anything."

And he doesn't, but as Steve walks into her apartment the next day and feels her presence hit him, he very dearly wants to.

After a few moments of standing in the doorway and taking it all in, he shakes his head to clear it and decides to focus on his goal: fixing the lights. He finds the problem fairly quickly: a blown switch on the timer that he replaces with ease. As he puts the timer back in its original position, Steve releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and allows himself to look around the apartment.

It's very quintessentially Nat, form-over-function, filled with only the essential furniture items and appliances. As he walks around, though, Steve starts to notice little pieces that hint at the more sentimental, less strictly practical side of Nat he had recently started to uncover. There's a Christmas card from the Bartons attached to the fridge, a pile newspaper clippings with headlines about the Avengers on her desk, and when he accidentally wakes up her dormant computer while picking one of them up, he sees that her screensaver is a photo of the Avengers facility.

He snorts as he realizes that the photo of the building they're in every single day is likely from the Internet, because none of them ever take pictures of it, and as he continues his stroll around the room Steve is surprised at the number of Avengers mementos Nat has placed around her apartment. He hadn't realized, he supposes, just how much being a part of the team meant to her.

For him, of course, it meant finding a group of people whom he could trust; it meant working with people with a closeness and an effectiveness he hadn't found in seventy years. It meant having a family.

He'd never considered that it might have meant the same to her.

A new wave of grief washes over him at this realization, borne of the empathy he has always had, and he sinks into her couch with a heavy sigh. He can't imagine what she must be feeling, what it must be like to be ripped away from everything she had at a moment's notice just as she was starting to really, really, be happy with it.

Actually, he can, because he's gone through it, more or less. The memory does not help. Steve puts his head in his hands, and as he peers through his fingers he sees a slip of paper underneath the coffee table that he hadn't seen before. He bends to pick it up, and as he flips it over what he sees makes him inhale so sharply that he glances around to see if any of the non-existent people around him heard.

It's a picture of the two of them, taken from what looks like security camera footage.

They're in that mall, right before that undercover kiss, sneaking into the Apple Store, and Steve would find it comical that Nat had to get a picture of them from a _mall_ _security camera_ because neither of them really have a habit of taking selfies, except his eyes are burning and he's trying to keep his tears from falling onto the picture and ruining the paper, and logically he would just put the photo down but he _can't_ , his hands are frozen and he's gasping for air and he _misses her_ , he misses her so much he feels like his heart is trying to fight its way out of his ribcage and his chest might burst so he might just die right there on her couch.

He calms down after either a few minutes or a few hours, he's not sure which, and as he takes a shuddering breath he drops the picture onto the coffee table. It sends a cloud of dust floating into the air, and the reminder that Nat hasn't been there in months is almost enough to send Steve spiraling again, but he manages to get ahold of himself just in time.

 _Instead of crying_ , he tells himself, _do something. Clean, so she doesn't have to come home to a dirty apartment_.

Action. Keeping his body busy. It's how he's always distracted himself, how he's always kept emotions at bay when he's needed to.

So he stands up, finds her cleaning supplies, grabs her ludicrously colorful feather duster, and gets to work.

The second time, it's not nearly as unplanned. Nor is the third time. And then it becomes part of his routine.

Every Tuesday, Steve leaves work at the normal time, picks up dinner, and slips through Nat's door. Even though no one is living in her apartment at the moment, so it doesn't get dirty quite that fast, he always finds something to clean, something to fix. He cleans out her fridge, realizing that she left in such a hurry she had no time to throw anything out. He replaces her lightbulbs with more eco-friendly ones. He fixes the squeaky hinge on the guest room's door. He figures out how to use Netflix on her TV and eats dinner on her couch in between tasks.

He tells himself that he's doing all this to make her life as easy as possible when she comes back, that she'll be exhausted and probably mildly traumatized and the last thing she's going to want to do is clean out the rotten cheese he'd found last week in the bottom drawer of her fridge.

He's almost convinced himself by the time he hears a knock on the door, a month and a half in.

He freezes, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, and then he hears a key turn in the door and Tony's voice say "Oh, my God."

Steve only has time to turn off the TV before Tony rounds the corner, accompanied by none other than Sharon Carter. His eyebrows are raised, and as Steve feels the heat rising in his cheeks he waits for the outburst that is certainly coming.

Instead, Tony turns to Sharon and says, "I _knew_ it. Didn't I tell you it was nothing? Simpy McSimp here can take care of himself. He misses his girl, that's all."

She rolls her eyes, and when she speaks she addresses Steve. "I noticed you didn't get home until well past midnight on Tuesdays, so I called Tony. Figured he'd know if something was off about you, and I didn't want Fury to think you were working for someone else if you weren't. Someone was bound to notice, you know. I do live right next to you."

Steve stares at her. "I forgot."

"Lucky you."

Tony makes a noise from deep inside his throat, causing both of them to look at him. "Sorry, can we get to the real question? What are you _doing_ here? I made an extra copy of her key for me for emergencies, too, but that's been locked in a vault deep in my workshop until tonight. I don't come _use_ it every week. You just come eat dinner and watch TV at her apartment on Tuesdays? Is that what the great Captain America has been reduced to? Do you sleep in her bed, too?"

"I haven't even _been_ in her bedroom," Steve says defensively. "That door's been closed since the beginning and I haven't touched it. I'm not some fuckboy off the streets, I have boundaries—"

"So what do you _do_?"

He drops the pasta container back onto the coffee table, where it lands with a thud. "Clean."

Tony stares at him for a full five seconds before answering. "Clean."

Steve shrugs as nonchalantly as he can with the knowledge that his face is still glowing red. "Yeah, clean. Threw out the perishables in her fridge, dusted the countertops, mopped the floor, things like that. I figured I'd make this place as nice as possible for when she comes back. She's not gonna want to do anything but sleep for weeks, probably, so I figured it was the least I could do."

Tony is still staring at him like he's suddenly sprouted wings, but beside him Sharon's face has softened considerably. Steve hates the pity in her eyes.

"I want to make things easy for her, okay? She's in the middle of a state-wide crime network, and she's _alone._ She deserves to come home to a clean house and a fridge that doesn't smell like mold and lightbulbs that actually work—"

"Yeah, and you miss her," Tony says. "Just say you miss her, dude."

"Okay, _fine_ , I miss her, of course I miss her, she's been gone for months and sometimes I see someone wearing a hat that she would mock the hell out of and I turn around to hear it but she's not there. This place reminds me of her, okay, and cleaning it helps me focus and it helps me feel like I'm doing something productive, because—well, because—"

"Because it only matters if we think she's coming home," Sharon supplies softly, and as Steve looks up at her he sees that the pity in her eyes has morphed into a sympathy that makes him somehow feel both uncomfortably vulnerable and securely understood.

"She's coming home," says Tony, voice hard with determination and eyes dark with a new understanding.

Steve nods heavily. "Yeah."

There's a beat of silence, and then Tony cracks a grin. "And she's gonna _love_ what you've done with the place. I mean, is that lavender air freshener? Nothing has _ever_ been more Romanoff in the history of the universe. Except maybe a Cinderella dress for Halloween. You should just repaint all her furniture hot pink, while you're at it."

Steve throws a pillow at him.

At seven forty-five on Wednesday evening, Natasha pulls up to an abandoned warehouse in a big rig full of military-grade weapons.

Each item contains a built-in tracker deep within its skeletal structure that Agent Hill assured her (and she sorely hopes this is true) would be impossible to find unless the entire weapon was deconstructed. Each weapon also has the ability to kill hundreds of people, a fact that makes Natasha very, very uncomfortable.

"There's no other way," Hill had said. "If you don't get into this gang, you'll never be able to take them down. And if you don't take them down, they'll eventually hold the fates of this entire state's population in their hands. We may have to lose some lives now, but we're saving lives in the long-term. You know how this goes, Natasha."

And she does, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.

She's fifteen minutes early, and the air is still quiet and undisturbed, so she opens the truck door and hops onto the pavement, taking in her surroundings. There's a residential area within a few miles, and as she gazes almost longingly at the lights she can practically hear the comfortable clatter of parents preparing for their children returning home for Thanksgiving next week, a tradition she has never been privy to. It's a stark reminder of the abnormality of her life, and of the life she may want but will never have.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Matthew comes strolling much too calmly out the warehouse doors.

"Hey," he says as he approaches her, features thrown in sharp relief under the harsh glare of the streetlight. "The guys'll be out here soon, they sent me to greet you."

Natasha hums in acknowledgement, and beckons him toward the back of the truck.

"I should also tell you—there's a boss, Damien, who _really_ took an interest in you the other night. He says it's strictly professional, that you'd help them a shitload with weapons and stuff, but, um, I think there's definitely something beyond that. If you know what I mean."

Natasha keeps her face deliberately emotionless as she says, "Oh?"

Matt has barely opened his mouth to respond when the warehouse doors clang open and a group of about ten men appear on the far side of the road. She hops up to open the truck doors.

"Just—be careful. I've heard he can be kind of rough." His words are quiet and rushed, and the sincerity behind them makes her pause and glance at the men who are already within earshot.

She flashes him a reassuring smile, and then raises her voice to address the group currently ambling towards them. "Hello, gentlemen. Did someone call for some AR-15's?"

Natasha throws the back doors open as they gather behind the truck, and as they take in the mountain of guns behind her she grabs one and tosses it to the guy nearest to her. The guys are displaying various degrees of shock, and Aaron's eyes are slowly climbing farther and farther up his forehead.

When it becomes apparent that they might be a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of weaponry behind her and have no desire to speak, Natasha says, "I have to admit, it's a little more than my usual load. But I figured I'd put on a little show for my audition, so to speak. So you can see exactly what I could do, given the chance."

Aaron looks like he's having some difficulty finding his voice, but once he does he nods to the guy Natasha threw the gun to. "Damien. How's it look?"

Natasha's eyes widen infinitesimally at the sound of his name, but she turns her attention to him and says, in a carefully neutral voice, "Yeah, Damien, how's it look?"

Damien turns the weapon over four times, carefully examining every nook and cranny, before answering. Natasha determinedly shoves images of him firing the gun she just put in his hands at innocent civilians out of her head and places one hand on the door, ready to slam it shut as soon as Damien gives any indication of having found the tracker.

He doesn't. "All looks good."

Aaron nods and gives Natasha a grin that makes her want to hurl. "Well done, missy. I'll put in a good word with the big boss for you, too. See if you can't rise through the ranks a little quicker. A Vanko like you could be dead useful to Ammo, especially as a boss."

Adrenaline is pumping through her system, but her nod is cool and gracious. "So, I'm in?"

Aaron snorts. "Yeah. You're in."

"Great," she says, hopping off the back of the truck. "So you can just keep the truck, too, as a thank you, and I'll just catch a ride home with Matt—"

"Wait," comes Damien's voice, quiet and hard to read. "None of your family's here, right? For Thanksgiving?"

She feels Matthew shift beside her as she answers. "No. And even if they were, we were never big Thanksgiving dinner people. Not easy for reunions when half the family is wanted for a variety of felonies across the country."

"I'm in the same boat, actually. And if you're free, I'd love to take you out. We can have our own Thanksgiving dinner, celebrate you joining our family here." His voice is soft, almost timid, but there's a glint of desire in his eyes that chills Natasha to the bone. She doesn't know if it's for the weapons behind her, or if it's for her.

She doesn't think she wants to know.

And even though every fiber in her body is screaming at her to shoot Damien in the face and then run as fast as she can, she meets his eyes and then, in a voice so steady it could support a drunk Tony Stark, says, "I'd love that."

His face breaks into a smile, the rest of the guys hoot and holler, and Natasha wonders if she's allowed to jump off the cliff she can see behind the warehouse.

And as Matt drags her away after they make plans to meet at a restaurant Damien somehow knows is open on Thanksgiving, Natasha tries not to think about the harm she may have just done to the people she is trying very hard to save.


	7. a small price (b)

**Notes:**

lmao remember when I said I was gonna update every Sunday? that bitch is faker than joss whedon's feminism (and by that bitch I mean me from like a month ago)

Natasha Romanoff has never been on a real first date.

She is no stranger to fake ones, of course. There have been plenty of fancy dresses, plenty of dark and romantic restaurants, plenty of men, but it's always been for work. Natasha is more than accustomed to using her body and her femininity to get information from men who cannot see her as more than a temptation, an enticing conquest they have yet to take for their enjoyment. But when it comes to real romance, unhindered by the need to _get_ something, she is utterly without experience.

As she zips the back of her sleek, black dress with one well-practiced movement, she wonders, briefly, what Steve is doing for Thanksgiving.

She double-checks her makeup in the bathroom mirror before grabbing her purse off the table and stepping into the brisk autumn air. Matt is already waiting for her, tossing his keys up and down with a slight smile on his face.

"You ready?"

"Yeah. Thanks again for giving me a ride, I just didn't want him to know where I live, you know—"

"Mhm. Good call. Never trust a mobster, y'know."

They pull up to a small seafood restaurant fifteen minutes later, and she steps out the door with a promise to have fun and be careful. When she enters the restaurant, she sees Damien seated alone at a table in the corner and makes her way over, weaving through an assortment of empty tables and chairs.

He's wearing a leather jacket and black jeans, and when he sees her his eyes light up with equal parts awe and hunger. "You look amazing."

"Thank you," she says coolly, slipping into her chair. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long."

"Nah, I'm friendly with the staff here. I came early just to talk to them, catch up. I eat here every Thanksgiving—they're always open, and the food's not bad, either."

She nods, but before she can say anything a waitress is approaching their table with a bottle of wine and basket of biscuits that smells heavenly. They order, and as the waitress retreats Damien leans in.

"Girl like you, with a body like that, must have driven the boys crazy back in your old gang, huh?

Natasha side-eyes him as she grabs a biscuit. "Not really. Dating opportunities were pretty thin on the ground, to be honest."

"I mean, sure, but there must have been _something_."

"There wasn't. I had more important things to do. Like trying not to get caught by the Feds."

There's still a skeptical look on his face, and Natasha can feel her hackles start to rise.

"Listen," she snaps. "I'm an international criminal. I just handed your gang more weapons than most of those guys have probably seen in their entire lives. I'm wanted by seven different governments with the power to blow Antarctica off the face of the earth and none of them have any idea I'm here right now. I had more important things to do than entertain men who just wanted to get in my pants, and I have more important things to do now. So we can talk about something else, or I can leave and you can take my shrimp scampi home to eat for lunch tomorrow."

It's a risk, going with the badass, take-no-shit personality instead of the simpering, weak-willed female so many mobsters are used to seeing, but Natasha reasons that it's more in line with what she's shown him so far. Plus, she's hungry and frustrated and she's _tired_ of men treating her like this, especially after she's spent a decade with men who recognize her strengths and respect her as an equal. So, whatever.

Damien's eyes flash with shock and anger, and a thrill of dread runs down Natasha's spine. He slowly leans back and a malicious grin starts spreading over his face. "Okay, babygirl. You wanna be treated like one of the guys, huh? I can do that, for sure. You've gotta be able to hold your own, though." His voice is carefully light, but there's a warning behind it that Natasha hears loud and clear.

"Won't be a problem," she says, holding his gaze. She's already in too deep, anyway, and he's looking at her like she's a shrew to be tamed and she's sick of it.

They clink glasses, and as he drains his glass Damien looks perfectly content and at ease, but Natasha sees a gleam of something dark and dangerous beneath his eyes and her gut twitches uncomfortably because she _knows_. She has worked with too many criminals not to know.

She is going to pay for the choice she has made tonight.

Everyone goes bar hopping for Bruce's birthday.

It's a nice distraction, and Steve finds himself relaxing and enjoying himself for the first time since that terrible day three months ago. Tony's managed to get them private rooms at every bar they've been to, the cold December air sobers them up enough as they walk from bar to bar that their cognizant abilities are still relatively intact, he's surrounded by people he likes, the atmosphere is joyous, and as he laughs with the rest of the crew at Clint's tipsy attempt to perform the single ladies dance, he thinks, _this is good. I deserve this._

He's needed this break for a long time. Everyone else has too. So they dance, they talk, they laugh, and by the time they end up at the last bar of the night, his brain is surrounded by a pleasant layer of alcohol-induced haziness and there's a slight incoherence to his thoughts that is not entirely unwelcome.

"I'm gonna get us more drinks," he yells to the room at large, and everyone cheers and points at him before ushering him out the door. He descends the staircase with minimal swaying and approaches the bar, beckoning the bartender over. He asks for a round of shots and is dimly aware that his words are starting to slur.

"Uh-huh," the bartender says, shaking her head and sliding a gigantic glass of water across the bar. "Drink this first."

Steve chugs it. The bartender, satisfied, turns around to prepare his shots, and he can feel some of his wits returning, so he takes a seat on the stool and surveys the rest of the bar. His eyes sweep the floor, taking everything in, and then they land on something that makes him freeze in his chair and sober up immediately.

He's staring directly into a pair of eyes he hasn't seen since September.

Natasha's sprawled across the lap of one of five men sitting in a roped-off corner, dressed in a skin-tight blue number that Steve has never seen before. Surprise flashes through her eyes for a millisecond when their gazes meet, quickly replaced by the lazy indifference that was there before. She looks away, and then leans into the guy who can't seem to stop staring at her breasts and whispers something into his ear. He gulps in the way Steve has seen dozens of men do in Nat's presence, and Steve smiles slightly despite himself because he _knows_ Nat has this guy wrapped around his finger. He's seen her play this game more times than he can count, seen her win it every time. It's a bit of a reassurance, the familiar sight of her playing with a man to get what she needs; it means she has things under control. The knowledge helps him breathe a little more easily.

She stretches lazily, gets up, and says something to the group, and everyone laughs and waves as she makes her way around the table littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts and enters the crowd, vanishing from Steve's line of vision. He barely has time to wonder where she's gone before a shock of blonde hair appears in front of him, seemingly from nowhere.

"I don't have long. You shouldn't be here," she says, sliding into the stool beside him. He jumps at the sight of her, rattling the tray of shot glasses the bartender is sliding onto the bar in front of him. Nat steadies it, smiles apologetically at the bartender, and asks for five beers. The bartender glares at her and mutters something under her breath but turns to grab them all the same. She turns to face him and tilts her head so that it obscures his face from the view of her companions. "I don't know if they can read lips and I'd rather not find out tonight, but if I keep my head in this position for a long time they're going to get suspicious. You need to leave, Rogers."

Steve stares at her for a moment before remembering with a jolt that he's supposed to say something. "We're here for Bruce's birthday. Everyone else is upstairs."

"Great," she says, voiced raised so he can just hear it over the loud rock song currently blaring from the speakers. "You still need to leave. Tell Bruce I said happy birthday, and get out. Don't tell anyone you saw me until you leave; I don't trust any of the gang drunk."

He's listening, he really is, but he's also almost hungrily drinking in the details of her face, and beneath her makeup he can see the ghost of dark circles under her eyes and the way her skin has tightened around her hollowed-out cheekbones. She looks at him expectantly, and he's struck by the sudden realization that he really, really, does not want her to go back to those men right now.

"Loki told me you dyed your hair," he manages. "It looks nice."

She snorts. "Thanks. He's been surprisingly cooperative. I've started taking him to some of my drop-offs, just so the gang can start to get used to the sight of him. It's a lot easier for them to think he's a friend; I don't have to sneak around trying to meet with him."

Steve hums. "I haven't seen him in a while. There are gigantic gaps between our meetings because Fury's been up our asses trying to keep us from contacting you."

"Well," she smirks, "here I am. And I'm fine. But you really should leave, and I have to get back to work." She grabs the beers in front of her, flips her hair back, flings an arm over his shoulder, and winks at him. "Pay for these, will you? I told the guys I was going to get some lonely old man to buy us all drinks, and I can't have them thinking I failed."

He wants nothing more than to ask her to stay; he wants to stay in her company and to joke around with her for the rest of his life, starting now. He wants to curse the gods that have given him the sensibility to know that this is impossible. Instead, he rolls his eyes and forces a note of humor into his voice. "You got it. Have fun with your victim. Seems like this one's coming along nicely, too."

A shadow passes over Natasha's face as she turns back toward her table. "Yeah," she says wryly. "This one might take a lot out of me, though."

He opens his mouth to ask what she means, but she's already gone, weaving her way back through the crowd towards the group of men. When she gets closer, she lets out a whoop and raises the beer bottles like a trophy.

Their responding catcalls ring in Steve's ears the entire way home.

Anna Vanko likes pizza.

It's a discovery that surprises Matthew at first; how could someone with such an extensive criminal record and such an infamous last name who is probably wanted by the governments of more countries than he's ever even been to (he hasn't asked—he doesn't want to know) like something as ordinary and mundane and, well, human, as _pizza?_

(Later, after the initial shock wears off, he reasons that international arms dealers need to eat too. And there isn't anything quite as cheap, filling, and satisfying as a good pepperoni).

Anna likes pizza, so every Sunday, he heads over to her apartment and they demolish a few boxes of Little Caesars as they watch a movie or TV show on her couch. He's not entirely sure how this little tradition started, but he is not keen for it to end. They've worked their way through a considerable portion of Netflix's catalogue, binging comedies, dramas, and crime shows indiscriminately. (They never watch spy movies, though. She says they hit too close to home, and he never pushes it).

Loki and Charlie join them, sometimes, but it's mostly just the two of them.

Sometimes, they talk, too; he tells her about the girl who lives across the street he has a crush on, and reluctantly entering into the drug game to support himself, and how he wants to get out some day. She tells him about her dates with Damien, about her latest weapons deals, and about her plans for the future.

She never talks about her past. Every time he asks her about it, she shakes her head, gives an unsatisfyingly cryptic answer, and then changes the subject. He doesn't press the subject, but he does wonder. All the time.

One evening, as the snow falls lightly outside and the fire crackles comfortably in the fireplace, he makes a breakthrough.

Anna's been quiet the entire evening, like she usually is, but this is a different type of quiet—there's a restlessness, a distracted air about her that is a drastic departure from her usual focused, intense demeanor. It's unlike her, and in the three months Matt has known her he's never seen her be anything but strong and stoic.

"Hey," he says as she appears in her bedroom door, arms laden with some of the softest blankets he's ever seen. "Are you okay?"

He can practically see her guard go up as her eyes narrow. "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugs as casually as possible. "You've been quiet."

"I'm just tired," she says evasively. "I was out pretty late with the guys last night."

It's the obvious transparency of the lie that makes him push; she's a master liar and he knows that if she'd put any effort at all into the story he'd have believed it. "You were out much later last week but you were fine the day after."

Anna tosses him a blanket and sits down next to him, suddenly looking much more exhausted. "I…saw someone from my past last night, while I was at the bar with the guys. It was just a little jarring, that's all. I'm fine."

"The night after you delivered a truckload of deadly weapons to a gang of men fully willing to kill you and agreed to a date with a mob boss, you sat in my apartment and played Monopoly with me for five hours. But seeing someone from your past has you this rattled?"

"He was a big part of my past," she says simply, and Matthew can tell from her tone that the conversation is over. He casts desperately around his head for another, lighter, topic as she leans forward to pick up a slice of pizza, and then it comes to him.

"Did I tell you I finally took Karen on a date?"

The change is immediate; she looks up, eyes bright, excitement flooding her features. "No! Karen from across the street? Matty, that's amazing, I know you've liked her for ages, how'd it go?"

"Really, really, well," he says, positively beaming, "we're going out again next Wednesday."

"That's amazing," she says again, genuine enthusiasm in her voice. "I'm really, really, happy for you. It can be so hard to date in this business, I'm so glad you're getting the chance."

"Thanks," he grins, biting into his pizza. "What about you and Damien, though? You guys seem to be going pretty steady."

She shakes her head. "Yeah, but it's nothing serious. We're just having fun, playing around, you know."

"Oh," Matt says, and some of his questions must show on his face, because she smiles wistfully and tucks her legs underneath her blanket.

"When you do what I do, when you have to move around as much as I do, you try not to get into anything real, anything you care too much about. Because you always have to leave, eventually. No matter how good you think things are now, how long you think they can last, you always have to leave. Everyone is temporary, just a brief presence passing through your life. And it—it sucks, when you have to leave someone you kind of want to stay for. So I guess—I guess it's just easier, keeping everyone out, not getting too close to people. That way, when you inevitably leave, they don't get hurt as badly. You don't get hurt as badly."

She's not looking at him anymore; she's staring at the ground, and she doesn't move when Matthew puts a hand on her shoulder.

"The guy you saw at the bar?" he guesses softly.

She's silent, and he's fully prepared for her to brush the question off like she usually does and start talking about the next Kate Winslet film they should watch, but then she takes a deep, shuddering breath and he feels a jolt of shock run through his body. Anna Vanko, tough as nails, is trying not to _cry_.

He really has no idea what to do, except maybe get her to talk through it, because all that repression _cannot_ be good for her, so he says, "What was he like?"

She stares at the ground in silence for another moment before answering, and when she does her words are so quiet Matthew has to strain his ears to hear them.

"He was bold, strong, a big presence," she almost whispers. "You'd know whenever he walked into a room. He was, like, steady. Would do whatever it took to do the right thing, even if he was the only one willing to do it. He's stubborn, but he's smart, and he knew—he knew me better than anyone else, I think. Somehow. He was the type of person you'd want on your side." She chokes out a sad, slightly bitter laugh. "We were nothing alike, and yet—"

Her voice trails off, and the silence that hangs off of her words is heavy with words unspoken, with a life unlived.

"I want you on my side," Matthew says gently.

She gives him another wistful smile. "You shouldn't."

"But I do," he insists. He tries to imagine the life she's had and puts everything he has into making his next words not sound empty. "And it's gonna be okay."

"Yeah," she sighs, dropping her head back into the sofa. "I hope so."

Tony Stark is getting frustrated.

He's a restless person by nature, always moving, never happy with the status quo. It's what's made him so good at what he does.

It's also what is making him so goddamn _irritated_ at the moment, because he hasn't heard from Loki in almost two months and the last news he's gotten about Romanoff was that Rogers saw her briefly in a bar on Bruce's birthday three weeks ago. He'd track the guy down himself, but Loki is practically impossible to find; he changes numbers every time he texts, so that nobody from SHIELD can trace their calls or conversations.

What makes it worse is the way it's affecting Steve.

He'd known, objectively, that there was probably something between them, that their dynamic had changed during their many years working together. He'd known that Steve would change once she'd gone undercover, that he'd probably be mopey once in a while and be a little quieter, a little less lively.

He hadn't known that he'd be, well, like _this._

Tony hesitates to use the word _depressed_ , but the truth is that he isn't sure what else can describe it. Some days are better than others; some days, he comes in looking at least partly like his old self, semi-talkative, sarcastic, righteous, and ready to fight.

Today is not one of those days.

Steve is in the basement storage room, which is where he spends most of his bad days, and Tony is perched on the edge of Sam Wilson's desk, watching him polish his wings.

"How's Steve?" Sam asks, swiping a cloth over a metal feather.

"Not great," Tony mutters. "He's in the storage room again."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah."

"I really didn't expect him to take it this hard, you know. Guess he fell harder for her than we knew."

"Yeah," Tony says, "And it's like, I know he'd be better if he could work the case, help her, but—" He cuts his sentence short, remembering that Sam doesn't know about Loki. Nobody else does. They'd decided to keep it between the three of them, just for safety's sake. For everyone's sake.

"But Fury won't let him," Sam says, nodding, and Tony ignores the way his stomach squirms. "Yeah. It sucks, too, because we don't get _any_ information about how she's doing. Hill is too damn loyal to Fury sometimes. I hate it, so I can't even _imagine_ what it's like for him, going almost four months without any news."

The guilt is definitely making its way up Tony's abdomen, now, as he tries to imagine what it would be like if he'd gone all this time with zero knowledge of Romanoff's well-being.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," he says suddenly.

He bangs into the storage room and Steve looks up, mild surprise in his eyes.

"I think we need to tell the others about Loki," Tony says without preamble.

"Are you insane?" Steve asks, disbelief etched in every corner of his face, "Is this some kind of prank to make me feel better?"

"No, of course not," Tony says impatiently. "I really think we need to tell them."

"I thought we decided that the fewer people who knew, the better—"

"We did, but that was before I realized that nobody else here has had any news about how Romanoff is doing for the last four months. _Four months_."

Steve is silent for a few seconds, and when he speaks his voice is much quieter. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Yeah. Me either."

Tony's phone buzzes in his pocket, and as he takes it out his eyes widen. "It's Loki."

Steve is by his side in half a second, reading the text over Tony's shoulder.

 _Call me now. Need to meet._

"Can we tell them after this?" he asks.

Tony nods.

Sam Wilson owes a lot to Steve Rogers.

That's not to say he didn't have a good life before he met Steve; he definitely did. But working with Steve has given him a new one, a fresh start, a higher purpose that serving in the military could never have. It's breathed a new life into him, and he's very, very grateful.

It's also thanks to Steve that he knows Natasha Romanoff.

He'd noticed, from the very beginning, the unique dynamic the two of them had; even when there was never even a hint of romantic interest between them, they'd been more than friends, more than partners. He's served enough combat missions, been in enough life-or-death situations with people he trusted implicitly (and some he didn't) to know the rarity and the importance of a bond like that. He had her six. And maybe more importantly, she had his, no matter the situation. It doesn't escape his notice how rare that is for her.

Sam, also, has lost the person that did that for him.

So he understands Steve's anguish. He understands that some days are easier than others, that sometimes even putting on a brave face feels like an impossible task that requires an obscene amount of energy. He understands that he needs to hide away in a basement room isolated from any and all company once in a while. He'd anticipated it, even. But his blood had still run cold when Steve had trudged in 90 minutes late that first day, looking like he had just been dragged out of a prison cell. His heart still clenches every time he sees Steve's ragged, grief-stricken face, and he prays every day for Nat to come home.

He wonders what Steve will look like by the time she does.

His cell phone rings, loud and harsh against the silence. He starts and, in his alarmed state, answers without looking at the ID.

"Sam Wilson."

"Hi, Sam," a cool female voice says.

"Sha—Agent Carter?"

"Yep. I thought you might like to know that I'm taking a walk through a nice little Brooklyn neighborhood and two of your colleagues seem to be meeting with a god who is definitely on SHIELD's wanted list, and it doesn't seem likely that anyone's going to arrest him."

"I-excuse me?"

"Steve and Tony are currently talking to Loki on a bench in Brooklyn," she says, a touch of impatience in her voice. "Did you know about this?"

"No—no, are you serious?"

"Quite. And I don't think I'm reaching for straws when I say that this is probably about Agent Romanoff."

"Do they—do they know you're there?"

"Not yet. Should I deal with this or do you want to come do it yourself?"

"I'm coming," he says, determined. "Send me your location."

She agrees, and as he hangs up, still reeling, he beckons Clint and Bruce over.

(After all, he reasons, if Steve and Tony know something about Nat, her oldest friend and trusted colleague of almost ten years deserve to know too).

They're shocked and upset, to put it lightly, and Sam can't help but be, too. Steve has never been an open book, exactly, but he's also never really kept a secret from Sam since he joined SHIELD. He spends the car ride there rehearsing his angry tirade in his head, and when they step out, join Sharon, and start walking toward the three figures he can seated on the bench, he is more than ready to let it fly.

As he draws closer and gets a better look at them, though, the words die in his chest.

Loki looks grim, the familiar ghost of a smile that is usually hovering around his lips nowhere to be found. Tony is pacing, muttering to himself and running his hands through his hair, and Steve—

Steve looks like he has just been told he has two weeks left to live.

"I know you want to tell them off right now," Loki says quietly, before any one of them can say anything, "but trust me, now is not a good time."

There's a skepticism on Bruce's face that clearly says he does not trust the god in front of him, and Clint looks downright murderous, but they can both clearly see the distress their friends are in so they both stay quiet.

Sharon looks directly at Tony. "Is this about Nat?"

"Of course it's about Nat," he says, voice tinged with panic. "You think we would be in this godforsaken neighborhood, sneaking around Fury's ass for anyone else?"

"As part of her attempt to infiltrate and take down Ammo," Loki interrupts, perhaps seeing that Sharon was about to say 'well, yes', "Agent Romanoff has started a—well, for lack of a better term—relationship with a man named Damien Chetwynd."

"Bless you," says Sam.

Loki rolls his eyes. "He's a mob boss who's in Ammo's inner circle, or at least close to it. He took an early interest in her, so I guess she just went with it."

"Okay," Bruce says slowly, looking at Steve's rigid, motionless body, "so is this about Cap being jealous, or...?"

"I had FRIDAY pull his police records," Tony says, and the frantic edge in his voice has only escalated, "Wanna hear his priors?" Then, as if he's reading off a list, "assault and battery, public intoxication, DUI, DUI, domestic battery, domestic battery, domestic battery."

A heavy, shocked silence follows his words, punctured only by Bruce's quiet, "oh, shit."

"I saw him," Steve says hoarsely, finally looking up. "At the bar, on Bruce's birthday. I didn't know. If I had—"

"You couldn't have done anything," Clint says firmly. "She would've kicked your ass before you'd even moved two feet. This isn't your fault. Besides, she's survived much worse."

"Yeah," Steve whispers. "But she's always been allowed to fight back before."

"They were about to tell the rest of you," says Loki, looking directly at Sam and giving him the peculiar feeling that he can read minds, "But I contacted them before they could. They told me they were going to tell you as soon as they got back."

"It's totally fine," Sam says dismissively. "Not important."

"And you've been working with Loki this whole time? You trust him?" Clint asks skeptically. "After what he's done to us?"

Steve nods tiredly, but Tony looks straight at Clint when he answers. "We have to. If we don't, we're out of options."

Sam takes a good look at Tony. Tony, who almost died to save the world from the god he is now standing next to. Tony, whose nightmares featured Loki for years, who had panic attacks because of what Loki put him through. Tony, who is now standing before him with a determined and almost defiant look on his face.

"Okay," he hears Sharon say, "I'm in."

"Yeah," he says, "Me too."

All eyes turn to Clint and Bruce, who lock eyes and have a silent conversation that everyone can guess the contents of.

"Fine," Clint says, turning back towards Loki, "But this is for Nat and Nat only."

"Great," Loki says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Then let's do this."


	8. a small price (c)

Trigger warning: physical abuse

Matthew Murdock is friends with a Vanko.

He can't think about it too much; if he does, he starts to spiral because how could he, a good person who sometimes does questionable things, be friends with a _Vanko?_

The thing is, though, she doesn't seem like the Vankos he's heard about. Anna is tough, sure. And yes, she does know her way around guns, and she could definitely kick his ass if she wanted to. But she's…she's also a good _friend_. She listens as he talks about his past, about his running away from home. She listens as he complains about how he feels trapped in the drug game sometimes, about how sometimes he's afraid he's never going to be able to get out. She listens to his stories about Karen, and she smiles at the way his eyes light up whenever he says her name.

He wishes he could do the same for her.

It's not that he doesn't try; on the contrary, he tries _all the time_. But her defenses are high and sturdy, built up over decades of hiding, of deceit, of not having anybody to trust, and he isn't sure how far in he can get. He tells her literally everything about Karen in an attempt to get her to talk about the man who got away.

After the first night, she's a little more relaxed, a little less guarded. She slips little references to him into their daily conversations that are so inconspicuous he'd miss them if he wasn't consciously looking for them. He takes special notice of these tiny little notes, and from the bits and pieces of information he gets, he pieces together an image of the man whose name she still won't say. (He asks, but she just shakes her head and stays silent).

He's her rock, Matthew learns. He's strength and intelligence and sarcasm so subtle you'd miss it if you didn't know him. He anchors her to humanity, to the earth, in a way nobody else has. He's brave and he's morally pure and he's reliable. He's the yin to her yang, the daring trailblazer to her quiet infiltrator, the optimist that keeps her pessimism in check, the confident symbol of what is good and right that allowed her reticent, cynical self to maybe start believing in it too.

Now, he's a void. A missed opportunity. A potential unfulfilled, a name that will never grace her lips again.

Matthew doesn't know how he can help, if he can help. But he's determined to try, no matter what it takes.

He wants to help—which is why he's knocking on her door in the middle of the night after hearing a yelp of pain on his way to his own apartment.

"Anna?" He says, voice raised, when no one answers. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was on my way back from a deal and heard you yell. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" The door muffles her voice, but Matthew can still hear the note of pain underlying her words.

"Just let me in, I can help, I'm not doing anything, anyway! Come on, the neighbors are gonna wake up—" His words are cut short as she yanks the door open, drags him inside, and then shuts it as quickly as humanly possible. She's pulling locks shut by the time he turns to face her, and he counts four deadbolts that were definitely not there the night before. "What's going on? Why'd you get so many new locks?"

She turns, and he gasps in surprise. Her face is covered in dried blood, her left eye is swelling at an alarmingly rapid pace, a bruise is forming on her collarbone, and there's a bandage on her forehead that he assumes is hiding a nasty cut.

"What the hell happened?" he whispers.

"It's okay, I promise. I was putting some of my industrial-strength antiseptic on the gash on my forehead, and it's been so long I forgot how much it stings, so I just yelled in surprise. It's not that bad."

"It is that bad. Who did this to you?"

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter. You were at—at dinner. With Damien." He's breathing much too rapidly, and he can feel panic seeping into his veins. "He didn't. Tell me he didn't do this to you."

She opens her mouth, presumably to lie, but he sees the flash of indecision in her eyes before she does and it's all the answer he needs.

She can read the look on his face, too, apparently, because she changes tack at the speed of light. "It wasn't—he was drunk, it's not—"

"That's not an _excuse,_ Anna! You know as well as I do it's not an excuse."

They both fall silent, and as he stares at her, chest heaving, he realizes that she, ironically, is completely calm. She is quiet and cool, and he is on the verge of a panic attack. He can't even fathom the strength she has, the self-control she has developed that allows her to keep her wits about her in a situation like this. He can't imagine how many times she's had to do this before.

It's his desire to be strong for her, to be someone she can depend on, that lowers his heart rate and slows his breathing.

"Well," he mutters, once he's calm enough to speak, "you're never seeing _him_ again."

"Actually," she says with a wince, "I am. I have to."

"No, you don't," and the panic is coming back, "you absolutely don't, are you kidding—"

"Matt, please stop pacing, it's making me anxious. I have to, it's part of my job—"

"He _beat_ you! He fucking _beat you_ , I can't believe—"

"I can't just—he's a boss—"

"You think I give a _fuck_ —"

"He's a _boss,_ Matthew, and he can have us both _killed_."

He stops in his tracks, fear mounting steadily, and grabs the countertop for support.

"You can't tell anyone, please, it'll put us both in danger."

He nods and tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

"Matty," she says softly, taking a concerned step toward him and placing a hand on his shoulder, "it means the world to me that you care so much. Really, it does. I can't tell you how many years I went as an expendable tool that could be thrown aside as soon as it stopped functioning properly. Where I came from, nobody gave a shit. About me, about any of the others."

She pauses to watch him try and steady his breathing, and when it no longer seems like he's going to pass out on the spot, she continues. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I know what I'm doing. I promise. I've done this before, and I'm gonna be okay."

He turns to look at her, horror in every inch of his gaze. "You've…you've done this before?"

She nods, grimly. "It's been a while. But it's definitely not new. And this time—this time I'm not alone." Matthew hears the question in her words, and he hates that she even has to wonder.

"Of course you're not alone. I'll help you with whatever you need, whenever you need."

She smirks, but there's something about it that doesn't match her usual sardonic humor. "Great. Can you help me stitch up the gash on my back?"

" _What?"_

There's a light amusement dancing around in her eyes at his shock. "I'd do it myself, but you offered to help, and it's much faster if someone else does it."

"I—um, okay, with what?"

"There should be a sewing kit in the cabinet over there—"

"A _sewing kit_?"

"It works, Matt. Unless you have any sterile hospital equipment lying around."

He blanches, and she notices. "Never mind. I can do it, it's okay."

Anna opens the cabinet and grabs the sewing kit from the top shelf, and her words echo in Matt's head. _Where I came from, nobody gave a shit. About me, about any of the others._

"I can do it," he says suddenly, voice determined. "I'll do it."

She coaches him through it, wincing slightly every time the needle pierces her skin.

The second time he has to wash blood off her skin, his fingers tremble less.

The third time, he's able to clean and dress the wounds she can't reach without her guidance.

After that, he waits for her to come back when she's on a date. And on the nights she shows up with blood seeping through her clothes, he reaches for his first-aid kit without asking.

He stops flinching at the sight of blood after a month.

It starts with a gunshot.

Natasha is lying on her couch, trying desperately to heal her body as much as possible before the next inevitable beating, when it goes off.

The sound rips through the quiet early-March air with a vengeance, and it sends Natasha straight off the sofa and into her bedroom, where she grabs her gun off the floor and her phone from the nightstand above it.

She ignores the text from Matthew ( _hey man, I'm gonna be at Karen's if u need me)_ and dials 911 as she moves. She's already out the door by the time the operator picks up.

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

"Gunshots," she pants, sprinting down the stairs as fast as her throbbing ribs will let her. "Just heard gunshots on the street."

"What is your—"

"The Ridge 7410," she says, wincing as another gunshot goes off, "on Ridge and the Bay Ridge Parkway."

"Thank you. Squad cars are already on their way. Please stay inside until the area is cleared."

"Sure thing," Natasha says as she pushes open the lobby doors and steps out onto the sidewalk. She sees a black Ford pull away from the corner store she frequents and peel down the street, tires screeching. For a moment, she stands, frozen by the sight of people scrambling around her and the screams of those who have just escaped.

It's an eerily familiar feeling.

She's broken out of her reverie by a tug at her sleeve.

"Hi," says the little girl.

"Hi, honey," Natasha murmurs, kneeling and ignoring the horrible pang in her chest as she remembers little Lila Barton, "What's wrong? Are you lost?"

"Yeah," she says, pulling at her rainbow T-shirt. "I can't find my mommy."

"Well," Natasha smiles, "We're gonna find her together, okay?"

The girl nods, and as Natasha takes her hand she sees Matthew sprinting towards her.

"Hey," he says as he comes to a stop, breathing heavily. "You okay? Who's the kid?"

"I'm fine. She's lost, I'm helping her find her mom."

"Want me to help? I'll take the other side of the street if you take this one. Karen's over there, too, so she can help me."

"Perfect. Thanks."

He gives the little girl a reassuring grin and heads off. Natasha takes slow steps toward the group of police officers now at the end of the street, talking to civilians. As she approaches, the girl's hand securely in hers, the gaggle of civilians gradually disbands to leave a singular distraught woman talking to a man dressed in plainclothes who gives off an aura of authority that transcends those of the cops around him. Natasha thinks he might be an undercover sergeant who got called out of another job, and wonders idly whether she'd be able to recognize him from her many police encounters if he'd turn around.

"Please, sir," she hears the woman say as she draws within earshot, "she's my only daughter, she's my everything. If anyone can find her, you can, please—"

"Mama?" The little girl shouts, tearing her hand out of Natasha's and sprinting full-speed toward the woman. "Mama!"

The woman sees her over the man's shoulder and is by her side in seconds, sobbing and grasping at her hair. Natasha starts to smile and back away, but then the undercover sergeant turns around and everything suddenly falls silent and still. The buildings, the roads, the cops, everything and everyone falls out of her line of vision, save for one man.

Steve Rogers is staring directly at her, looking like he's just found the fountain of youth.

His face is filled with shock, but it's mingled with adoration and longing and awe and his gaze is rooting her to the spot. Her mind is completely empty, filled with only the thought of the man in front of her, and it's completely overwhelming and mind-numbing at the same time. It takes all her willpower to force herself back to reality.

"Sir," she manages, thanking every force in the universe that her black eye has almost faded entirely, "if you come with me, I'd love to give you my statement."

She leads him down an alleyway and into a small, closed-off space she'd discovered early into her stay. It's ideal for her phone calls with Agent Hill; it's private, hidden, out of earshot from the street and any nearby apartments, and there is one way in and out. She turns around as soon as they're inside, and he stops dead.

" _Natasha_ ," he breathes, her name a prayer on his lips. She takes a step toward him, and he runs his hands up and down her sides like he can't believe she's real, and she's about to say something but his hands run over her freshly stitched rib and she lets out a surprised hiss of pain.

His hands disappear at once, and she can't believe how much she misses them as soon as they're gone.

"I'm okay," she says, eyes roving over his face. "I'm okay."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No," she says, shaking her head, "No—"

"Did he hurt you?"

She hesitates, and his eyes blaze with a fury and pain that she has seen grace those eyes too many times.

"It's okay," she says quickly. "I'm okay. I just wasn't expecting it."

He looks like his soul is broken, and she _really_ isn't good at this stuff, but she reaches out and hugs him for maybe the first time and he nearly comes apart in her arms. She knows he's only holding on for her sake, and it's that knowledge that makes her pull back and look him in the eye.

"Steve," she says quietly, arms still on his shoulders, "you need to take care of yourself."

He scoffs. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you."

She gives a short laugh. "I'm on a job. We make exceptions. But you aren't, and you look as bad as I do. Maybe you should—maybe you should take a step back from this case."

He visibly bristles, and she hurriedly continues, "Not that I don't appreciate it. I do. But I can do it myself. You deserve to live, Steve. You deserve to be happy, to have a life outside of the Avengers. Sometimes I think you spend so much time fighting for everyone else's lives you don't even know what it's like to live your own."

"And you do?"

"I didn't. But then I met Clint, I met Tony, I met you. And I started to learn. I think you should, too. I know you want to take down Ammo, I know you want to save New York. But I'm working on it. And you should work on yourself."

"You think I'm doing this for _New York_?"

"You love saving people, Steve," she says tiredly. "I know that. That's why you showed up so fast today. You have to save people. You can't bear to see them in danger. But you can't sacrifice your body for a case, especially one that I'm already working."

"Natasha," he says, eyes never leaving hers, "I'm not doing this for the case."

And maybe she was avoiding this, maybe all the talking and rambling was just to circumvent _this_ moment, because now that it's here she feels like she might drown, and even as she reaches up and drags his lips down to hers she is staggeringly and terribly aware of the way it's going to end, of the way it has to end. She doesn't care enough to stop. He doesn't seem to, either.

They don't break apart until a siren wails outside, and even then their arms find each other as they stand inches apart, hearts hammering.

"I have to go," Natasha mutters, taking a step back. "They're re-opening the street, people will be everywhere. I've been gone too long, they're gonna wonder where I am—"

"Nat," Steve says, fingers still lingering on her arm, "please just—please be careful."

"I'm always careful," she says, doing her best to sound reassuring as she straightens her shirt and starts to walk down the alleyway.

She can feel his eyes on her back as she leaves, and the fact that he knows not to walk out with her in case someone sees them together, that she doesn't even have to tell him not to, eats at her with every step. Her footsteps echo in a silence that is heavy with anguish and despair and yearning, that is lined with a tiny sliver of hope that she thinks amplifies the distance between them.

He doesn't speak until she reaches the end of the pathway, and when he does his voice is quiet. She hears it, loud and clear, all the same.

"Please come home."

She looks back one last time before she turns the corner and steps back out onto the now-busy street, his words echoing in her head.

Matthew is waiting outside her apartment when she arrives.

"Hi," she says thickly, "I…uh…found the girl's mom. Sorry it took so long."

"S'okay," he says, voice oddly hearty. "I figured you were busy."

Her senses tingle at the inflection in his voice, but when she searches his face she finds nothing.

"Thanks for waiting," she says slowly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He nods, and she waits for him to lock his door before unlocking her own, the ghost of Steve's touch still haunting her skin.

Tony shows up at Natasha's apartment that night.

He's carrying a grocery bag that swings by his legs as he kicks his shoes off, and from his vantage point on the couch Steve sees his own numbness flash briefly through his eyes before they clear again.

"Gimme some of that blanket," Tony says, parking himself on the other end of the couch. Steve passes him a corner without complaint as Tony drops the bag on the table and produces two pints of ice cream.

"They're both Stark-raving Hazelnuts," he says, passing Steve a carton and a spoon. "I didn't give us a choice."

Steve shrugs emotionlessly and takes it, knowing full well that the ice cream may as well be plain flour, for all the flavor he's going to taste. Tony seems intentionally not to notice, and as he takes the remote and turns the TV on he seems completely at ease.

"We're gonna watch _The Bachelor_ ," he announces, and for the first time, Steve stirs.

"I don't want to—"

"We're gonna watch _The Bachelor_ ," he says, more loudly, "and I'm gonna play all of them."

Steve hardly has time to look confused before the mute button is pressed and the TV screen is filled with the face of a man who looks like every generic country star Steve has tried to become familiar with in the past ten years.

"Hi, I'm Jackson," Tony says, in a lilting country accent. "I love overalls and corn. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to open the door for my ladies as long as they cook my meals three times a day, clean the entire house, do my laundry, and don't become more successful than me! I have nothing to offer a woman but I'm here to look for love, and I really think Christine is gonna see that, with me, she can realize her dream of taking care of a man for the rest of her life."

Steve glances at Tony, smiling slightly, but his focus never leaves the screen.

"I'm Christine," Tony says, voice suddenly four octaves higher, as her face suddenly appears. "I have four PhD's and am a supremely accomplished attorney, but my mom keeps asking me when I'm getting married, so I'm here. One of my two final men is going to be intelligent, kind, and perfect for me, and the other is going to be the worst person you've ever met. I'm gonna pick the latter, obviously. Nothing better for me than a man who is against everything I stand for as a person!"

Steve is grinning so broadly he can't even shovel a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, but Tony keeps going.

"Oh, Christine!" he yelps dramatically, as an unknown man takes her face in his hands. "I know we haven't even had a real conversation yet, but I think I'm in love. I love you so much that I'm about to give you the worst kiss of your entire life, but you're gonna have to pretend it was good for the show. You are…so beautiful, and if I don't shove my tongue in your mouth right now I think I might die."

Mirth bubbles in Steve's chest until it overflows and he's shaking with quiet laughter, and Tony grins and pauses the episode. He waits for the it to subside before saying, quietly, "How was she?"

Steve shakes his head, and the melancholy feeling is still there but it feels lighter, more bearable. "Hurt. I couldn't tell how bad."

Tony hums, and after a beat of silence Steve asks, "Can we talk about something else?"

There's a moment where he thinks Tony is just going to straight-up refuse, but Tony puts the ice cream down on the coffee table instead and says, "Yeah. But you aren't alone anymore, you know. You have friends. Friends who care about you, who are here for you. Who can help you."

"I know," Steve says heavily, tightening his fingers around the edge of Natasha's blanket, "I know. Thanks. Maybe later. But not—not today."

Tony's eyes hold Steve's for a couple seconds before he sighs and kicks his feet up under the blanket. "We're gonna get through this. Together."

"The Nat thing or the _Bachelor_ episode?"

"We're not just getting through the episode, my man. We're getting through the entire _season._ "

When Steve wakes briefly in the middle of the night, Tony is snoring, an arm draped over the back of the couch. The abandoned ice cream cartons lay on the coffee table, illuminated by the soft glow of the TV, and Steve wonders idly if he should get up and turn it off before deciding that the scene is too tranquil to disturb.

Darkness starts to overtake him again, but before he surrenders to it completely, he sees a brief, comforting light. It gives him a sense of security he hasn't felt in a long, long time, and it's enough to let him sleep until morning.


	9. one-way-ticket (a)

**chapter 9: one way ticket (a)**

A single gunshot tears through the damp evening air.

.

Natasha Romanoff has killed many people in her life.

It's not something she's proud of, exactly, but she isn't ashamed of it either. She's grown up doing it, has always done it. She's a master assassin, after all. It's part of her job description. A gun is as familiar to her hand as a pencil, maybe even more so. Before, she'd mowed down rows of people with little consideration for who or what they were. Later, after she'd joined SHIELD, she'd become a little more cautious, had started dedicating some thought to keeping innocent people out of harms way. But she'd still put plenty of bullets in bad people's heads without a second thought. Killing people used to be what she did, and now it's part of what she does. She's fine with that. And she's good at it, too; her bullets come quickly and accurately, as sure as the hand that fire them. She's never come away with any remorse, any reservations.

Until now.

She's standing in the dimly lit warehouse she's learned serves as a local headquarters for Ammo's operations (the real headquarters are in some faraway, secret location she has yet to find), surrounded by the mob bosses and gang members she's gotten to know far too well the past seven months. Her arm is extended, and her hand is holding a gun she has fired more times than she can count. It's a familiar position, and were it any other day she would pull the trigger with no hesitation.

Except three feet away, staring down the barrel of her handgun, is Charlie.

And for all the intelligence she is supposed to have, she can't seem to think of a way out of this one.

"Come on," Damien growls from somewhere behind her, "Do it already."

She flicks her head as if trying to get rid of a fly, eyes never leaving Charlie's pale, terrified face. "He was a good part of my crew."

"Anna, honey," Aaron drawls, stepping forward from his place among the circle of men, "I know he was useful. But he tried to _nark_. If we hadn't caught him, the Feds would be all over us right now. You'd be in prison. We don't take pity on rats, Miss Vanko. You of all people should know that."

"Enough," Damien snarls. "He knew what he was getting into when he joined us. He snitches, he dies. And since you're his supervisor, you get to do the honors. Those are the rules, and he knew them coming in. There are consequences for your actions. You don't get to just wake up one day and decide you don't want to be a criminal anymore. That's not how this shit works."

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Matthew makes a sudden, violent movement, and she thanks every god she can think of that Loki has the reflexes and presence of mind to slide subtly in front of him, hiding him from view.

"I know the rules," she says, as evenly as possible, eyes still locked onto Charlie's. "But it's unfortunate. He's a good guy, resourceful, funny, kind, and his heart was in the right place. It was nice having him in my crew. In another life we might've been close friends."

Understanding flashes across Charlie's face, followed by a gratitude Natasha knows she does not deserve.

"What are you, giving a fucking eulogy?" Damien sneers, and it takes everything Natasha has not to turn around and shoot him instead. "Just do the damn thing, or I'll do it for you."

It's the truth she knows is in his words that makes Natasha take a deep breath and steady the gun in her hand.

She thinks briefly of missing on purpose, of placing the bullet so that it misses all his essential organs and then rushing him to the hospital as soon as everyone else clears out, but then she glances at the rock-filled duffel bag in the corner and she knows it is futile.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"It's okay," Charlie says softly, and the understanding and resignation in his eyes are burning their way into her mind in a way she knows is going to haunt her for the rest of her days. "It's okay. If it has to happen, I'm glad it's you."

She takes one last look at his taut, terrified face before her eyes shut and her finger tightens on the trigger. It's a shot she could make with her eyes closed, and she does.

She doesn't flinch when the bang goes off, and her jaw tightens only slightly when she hears his body hit the floor.

She feels someone tug at her arm, and she doesn't open her eyes until she feels him drag her away from the commotion and into a corner of the warehouse.

Aaron stops, lets go of her arm, and turns to her with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

"What?" she asks, mind still half on the man she just shot and killed.

"When I told Ammo about Charlie ratting us out, he was weirdly excited. Said it could be a good test for you."

"A test for me."

"Yeah," he says, meeting her eyes. "I've been keeping him updated on your progress, everything you've done for us, obviously. He's been hella impressed, and he's obsessed with having a famous name like a Vanko in his crew. Says it could be good for terror. So he said to have you kill the rat, and if you were tough enough to do it, he'd let you in to the final circle."

"I thought it was the rule for me to do it."

"It was," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "It is. But it still worked as a test. Two pigs with one stone, yadda yadda."

"That's not the saying."

"Whatever. Point is, you passed. Which means you get into Ammo's secret little circle, which is literally just me and, like, two other people. Damien isn't even in it. So I'll tell him, but I thought I should tell you before, just so you're prepared when he comes calling."

"Prepared for what?"

Aaron grins. "A road trip, of course. You get in, he shows you the main headquarters. It's _dope_ , dude."

 _Aha._ "That's incredible," Natasha says, forcing a small grin onto her face. "Thanks, Aaron."

"Don't thank me," he says, winking and turning to walk away. "Thank that bullet you just fired."

After a few seconds, Natasha tears her gaze away from his retreating back and glances at the body that is slumped in the middle of the warehouse floor. In less than an hour, she knows, it will be in that duffle bag at the bottom of the river, and the blood will be mopped up from the floor with an efficiency that would put most cleaning companies out of business. His presence will be wiped from the gang's operations, his deals will go to someone else, and everything will proceed as usual.

By eight o'clock tomorrow evening, it will be as if Charlie had never existed.

Natasha takes one last look at his broken, lifeless body before pushing her way out the doors, his last words ringing in her ears.

" _If it has to happen, I'm glad it's you_."

She realizes too late she never learned his last name.

As the echoes of the gunshot fade away, a tense silence settles upon the docks, as if the world is waiting for a second explosion to hit.

.

The drive home is filled with a silence that is ready to explode at any moment.

As he stumbles through the door of Anna's apartment, Matthew is just aware enough of his surroundings to make his way over to her couch and fall on it. He can hear, distantly, the sounds of Anna and Loki having a conversation, but their exact words are obscured by the ringing in his ears. He can't tell if he wants to throw up or run around screaming.

His body compromises by retching loudly, attracting the attention of his companions.

"Matt?" Anna says, voice concerned. "You okay?"

He wants to nod, but his body is now completely outside of his control and Charlie's _blood_ is still on her _pants_ and he can't feel her hand on his thigh at all and her face is starting to swim and blur in front of him.

He feels his mouth open and his voice, five octaves too high, says, "They _killed_ him."

She doesn't move, doesn't say anything, and as he looks frantically around the apartment he realizes how genuinely _fucked up_ this is, that this isn't his life, that this has never been the life he wanted. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want this to be what he does, what he is.

"They _killed_ him! He was my friend and they just made you shoot him like that, what the _fuck_ , I've gotta—I've gotta—"

"You have to what, Matt?"

"I've gotta get out. I'm calling the cops." The silence that follows his words is not filled with the finality and newfound determination he feels, and he doesn't understand why.

"Matt," Anna says softly.

"I have to tell them!" and his voice is frantic, frantic with the desire to make them _understand_. "Anna, don't you get it, I'm done with this, it's over, they just shot my _friend,_ I can't—" His voice breaks off as he reaches into his pocket and discovers his pocket to be empty.

"Where's my phone?"

Loki coughs, and Matthew looks up to see Anna somehow standing across the room, a black rectangle clenched tightly in her fist.

"I—did you take that out of my pocket?"

She shrugs, as if pickpocketing is something incredibly simple and mundane for her (and honestly, it probably is), and then says, "You can't call the cops."

"Um, I _can_ and I'm _gonna_ , this is it for me. I'm getting out, I can't fucking deal with this anymore, I have to tell _someone,_ they have to do something, I can't—just _give_ me my _phone_!"

"No," she says simply.

"Anna, what the fuck? I'm not gonna rat you out, dude, they made you do it! You can hide, your bullets are untraceable and I'll just pin it on someone else, they're all wanted criminals anyway, come _on_ —"

"Didn't you hear what Aaron _said?_ They _bugged_ his _phone_ , Matt, they heard the entire fucking thing! If you call the cops we'll all be dead before morning!"

"Fine," he spits, fists clenched at his side. "Then what about that cop you were boning in the alleyway?"

A shocked silence follows his words, and he feels a rush of savage satisfaction as Loki freezes and the color drains slowly from Anna's face.

Her voice is hard as she says, "What?"

"That _cop_ who had his tongue down your throat last week, when we were looking for that girl's mom. Just because he wasn't wearing a uniform—"

"You _followed_ me?"

"I came back to see if you'd had any luck with the police and you were walking away with him! I was trying to protect you, trying to make sure he wasn't gonna jump you or anything, and then y'all started _making out_ , and I know you knew he was a cop, if I could tell then I _know_ you could too—"

"Good lord," Loki mutters. Both Matthew and Anna ignore him.

"Okay," Anna says, more calmly, and Matthew can see the gears in her head turning. "Okay. I can explain."

"I know you're a serial liar, you could feed me any bullshit story you wanted and I wouldn't be able to tell if you're lying! I can't believe I've just trusted you this entire fucking time and you were _making out_ with _cops!_ How am I supposed to— _what_ _is so funny?"_

Loki starts, trying to control the fits of laughter that have him shaking quietly in the corner, and as Matthew turns toward him he almost misses the hurt that flashes through Anna's eyes. Loki grins widely, and Anna shoots him a warning glance that he either misses or chooses to ignore because he says, "You and _Rogers?_ In _broad daylight_? Gods, did I underestimate you two."

Anna is glaring at him, and suddenly Matthew is seven again, in his mother's kitchen minutes before she tells him that she and his dad are getting a divorce, and he can tell there's _something_ , some information he's missing, something he should know but doesn't, and he can't for the life of him figure out what it is.

"What are you talking about?" he demands. Loki just shakes his head, still grinning, and Matthew spins back around to address Anna. "What is he talking about?"

She shakes her head, too, and Matthew is _so tired_ of that. "How are you gonna tell me I can't call the cops when you're, like, fucking them in your spare time? You don't think they'll kill you for that?"

"No-"

"Like, Jesus, I know Damien is the biggest piece of shit and deserves to rot in jail for the rest of the life and then rot in hell for eternity, but you can't just go making out with _cops_ to get him back! I mean, what the _fuck-"_

"It's not that simple-"

"I can't _believe_ you, how am I supposed to trust you if you're doing shit like that? What if they find out who I am through you? I could go to _jail_ , I'm trying to get out, I can't just run like you do—"

"I'm an undercover agent on an assignment issued by multiple law enforcement organizations." Her words are quiet and fast, and as Matthew stares at her in shock he sees that her face is set with a new determination.

There is no _way_ this is his life right now.

"You're delusional. Give me the phone."

She doesn't move. "I'm not. I have an extensive background in espionage and national security, and they've sent me to protect New York."

"No—"

"Loki's been helping me maintain contact with my squad."

His gaze snaps to Loki who smiles slightly, shrugs, and says, "Guilty."

A bit of doubt worms its way into Matthew's brain.

"Why do you think I've been letting Damien do all that shit to me? I can't risk losing my spot in the top. It'd jeopardize my mission."

"Your mission." He repeats.

"To infiltrate Ammo's gang and do whatever it takes to bring it down."

"That's insane."

She smiles wryly. "Is it? Why do you think your next-door neighbor suddenly decided to move out after he got a midnight visit from a certain Nick Fury? Just a big coincidence that I moved in a week later, was it?"

Matthew falls back onto the couch, panic and uncertainty coursing through his veins.

"So you see, Matthew," Anna says, dropping his phone onto the counter, "You can't call the cops, because I am the cops. They know I'm here. The FBI, NYPD, everyone. You call the cops, and they do nothing, because they'll think I have this under control unless I tell them otherwise. And I intend to do no such thing. So you can call them, but the only thing it'll do is tip Ammo off that you want to defect. I suggest you sit tight and watch the episode of _The Good Place_ that's about to air."

It is with great difficulty that Matthew forces himself to speak. "I can't believe you—you're a _cop._ "

Anna smiles slightly and walks to sit on the coffee table in front of him. "Not exactly. But for the purposes of this investigation, yes. I'm pretty much a cop."

He swallows thickly.

"Matt," she says, more gently, "it's gonna be okay. The entire federal government is behind me. I can protect you—I could've helped Charlie but I didn't know he was planning on calling the cops. Trust me. I'm gonna get you out. When I—when this is all over, I'm not going to leave you behind. But you have to _trust me._ "

He looks up, brown eyes finding the green, and finds her eyes completely clear for the first time. And as his eyes rake over her resolute, determined face, he _knows_. He knows that this is deliberate, that she has opened a part of her story for him to read in hopes that he will trust her to write him a happy ending.

For the first time, he is certain she is telling the truth.

"Can you just—can you tell me one thing?"

She nods.

"That—that cop in the alleyway. He's the—the guy, the one you saw at the bar." Another nod.

"What's his name?"

For a split second, the defensiveness is back, and he thinks he's gone too far, pushed too hard. But then her eyes clear again, the resolve returns to her face, and she takes a deep breath and says, "Steve."

"Steve," he says, rolling the name around his tongue. "And Loki—you said his last name? Rogers? Why does that sound familiar?"

Anna glances quickly at Loki, who looks like he's trying not to laugh again, and then gives a shrug and a small smile. "Common first name, common last name, I guess."

"Yeah," Matthew says slowly, "I guess."

She smiles indulgently. "Any other questions?"

"Wait, so you—you're not an internationally wanted criminal? Not a Vanko?"

She gives a short, bitter laugh. "I'm not a Vanko."

"What's your real n—you know what, I don't wanna know."

She grins, but when she speaks again her voice is serious. "You also can't tell anyone."

He snorts. "Jesus, Anna. I'm not gonna tell anyone."

"Okay," she says, voice relieved. She stands up and gestures to her blood-stained pants. "I'm gonna, um, change."

He nods and watches her disappear down the hallway. He waits until he hears her bedroom door shut before turning to Loki.

"You knew her? From before?"

Loki nods, a smile hovering around the corner of his lips. "You could say that."

"Did you know the guy, too? Steve?"

"It's a complex situation," he says, amusement dancing in his eyes. "But for the purposes of your question, yes. I did."

"Can you tell me about him?"

"Not my place," Loki says firmly. "I hardly—"

"I just want to know that she's safe," Matthew says quickly. "That when this all ends, she'll have someone to go back to."

"Trust me, she has more than one person to go back to," Loki mutters, and Matthew thinks he senses a bit of bitterness in his voice.

"I just meant—she's kind of my friend, now, and every time we talk I get the sense that she's been alone her whole life, and that he's the only person who can, like, help her with that, or whatever, so I just—"

"She'd be safe even if she was alone. She has abilities beyond your imagination. She could kill Damien with her bare hands if she wanted to."

"I—Okay, sorry."

Loki looks at him for a while, and then sighs. "They've been through a lot together. And they—they complement each other very, very well. He's a good man. The best man, in fact. If you knew who he was, you'd understand."

Matthew can tell that's all he's going to get, so he nods and slumps further into the couch.

"I don't know how she's doing this. Like, this is _insane_. She must've had a crazy life, to end up in a position like this."

His words are met with silence, and Matthew is just wondering if Loki might've missed his words when he hears Loki say, quietly, "You have no idea."  
.

The silence is interrupted only by a single man who appears at the top of the cliff, throwing a duffle bag into the river. It is briefly illuminated by the moonlight as it begins to fall, seemingly frozen in time for a split second before it begins its endless descent.

.

The next time Steve sees Natasha, it's at a police station.

They've brought Chetwynd in on a domestic violence call, and as soon as Tony had gotten the alert from FRIDAY, he and Steve had hightailed it to the 97th precinct so fast Steve is pretty sure he felt his ears pop.

They're talking to the beat cops who brought him in, and there's a palpable relief in the air because he's _here_ , they've _got him_ , and Steve could _kiss_ the neighbors who finally called the police last night because Chetwynd is in a holding cell right in front of their eyes and there's _no way_ this fucker is going to acquitted, Detective Jones is sure of it—he's going to jail and Nat is finally, _finally_ , safe from this monster.

His euphoria is cut short when the elevator doors ding open and Nat steps out.

"What the fuck did he do to her?" Tony whispers next to him, and Steve would answer but he's frozen, his blood is ice-cold in his veins and he cannot, no matter how he tries, tear his eyes away from the battered woman in front of him.

There's a gash on her forehead that looks like an old wound that was just reopened, and there's a bruise blossoming on her collarbone that Steve can just see peeking out beneath the hood of her sweatshirt. Her right cheek is newly swollen, and she's breathing gingerly in a way that tells Steve her ribs are definitely bruised, maybe worse. He doesn't want to know what injuries her sleeves and pants are hiding.

"Where's Damien?" she snaps, eyes sweeping around the room with no indication that she may recognize anyone there. "What'd you do to him?"

"Ma'am," Detective Jones says from her spot beside Tony, stepping forward, "We brought him in last night on three counts of domestic violence—"

"I assure you," she says, ice in her voice, "Damien is not your guy. You must've made a mistake."

Jones raises her eyebrows, skepticism written all over her face, and says, "With all due respect, we do our due diligence in arresting perps, and he was no exception. He matched all the descriptors—"

"He's never laid a hand on anyone his entire life."

The detective's eyes are visibly roving over Natasha's various injuries, and Steve realizes a dangerous question is coming a split second before it does.

"Miss Roman—"

"Detective," she interrupts, eyes flashing dangerously, and Steve thanks the universe that she didn't call her "Agent", "Is there somewhere we can speak privately? I'd love to see what his bail is."

She nods, brows furrowed in confusion, and leads her around the corner. Steve watches Chetwynd's eyes follow them into the interrogation room, and when the door shuts a malicious grin starts spreading across his face.

"You pigs are done now," he sneers through the bars of the holding cell. "My girl is gonna get me out, and I'm gonna get off with _nothing_. All that work for a load of horseshit."

Tony's hand finds Steve's arm, presumably to prevent him from saying or doing something he'll later regret, but he needn't have worried because Steve _cannot move_ , he's seething and there's blood roaring in his ears and his fists are clenched so tightly by his sides he thinks he might be cutting off circulation in his fingers but he can't seem to unfurl them and he is completely frozen, rendered powerless by the pure rage rising inside of him. This is _unfair_ and it's _terrible_ and he _hates_ that this is a recurring theme in his life, that one person is continually asked to sacrifice everything for the world that only they can save.

He was more than happy to do it himself. But watching someone else do it, watching her waste away in front of his eyes as she fights for the people they have given _so much_ to save, is—

"The worst fucking thing I've ever gone through," a beat cop says, strolling into the room with his partner. "I mean, seriously, don't get the nachos. I swear to God, I was on the toilet for _hours_."

Tony coughs loudly, and the cops look up with surprised looks on their faces that morph quickly into identical mortified expressions as they realize what's going on.

"Sorry," one of them mutters, and they walk quickly into the break room and shut the door.

Tony barely has time to roll his eyes before Detective Jones is back, a newfound comprehension lighting her eyes. She unlocks the door to the holding cell and releases Chetwynd's handcuffs, shooting Steve and Tony an apologetic look as she does. Natasha, having trailed into the room a couple steps behind her, gives her a small smile of thanks and takes Chetwynd's newly freed hand.

"Thanks, baby," he says, eyes a little too hungry for Steve's liking. "Let's get outta here."

She nods, and as they walk toward the elevator he slaps her ass with a force that clearly even Detective Jones thinks is uncalled for. The sound sends a visible jolt through Steve's body.

Tony grabs for him, but he's too late; Steve is already halfway across the room by the time he even reacts. He slides through the elevator doors right as they begin to close, and from the expression on Chetwynd's face it is fairly clear that he has interrupted what he bets would have been a pornographic make-out session.

"Sorry," he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Needed to get something downstairs."

It's a pathetic excuse, and Natasha's expression tells him so, but he really was beyond thinking and he's here already, so he tries not to look at either of them and waits quietly for the elevator to descend. Natasha is steadily tapping her finger against the wall, and the fact that it's probably because she's nervous it makes him more anxious than he needs to be but if he opens his mouth to ask her to stop he's pretty sure she'll beat him up right then and there.

So he waits in silence, and when the elevator doors open he lets them walk out first so he can watch her back disappear around the corner, her tapping worming its way into his brain.

It's there for the rest of the day, and it drives him insane. He isn't sure why the sound of her _tapping her finger against the wall_ is stuck in his head, of all things, but it is, and he hates it.

In the middle of the night, he suddenly remembers that she has never had a single nervous tic.

The realization sends him flying out of bed and to his desk, rifling frantically through drawers until he finds what he's looking for: an ancient Morse code translator Clint had given him after he'd learned that Steve had forgotten it.

"It's important," he'd said. "A spy's universal language. You never know when it could save someone's life."

Steve slams it on the desk, grabs a pen, and starts scribbling down the pattern of taps that has hounded his thoughts for hours.

It takes him thirty seconds to translate the message, and it takes him another thirty seconds to fully comprehend it, to fully grasp what it means. He grips the pen so tightly it almost snaps in half, staring at his hastily scrawled letters like they're a mirage and he's a man dying of thirst in the middle of a desert. The words scream at him from the page.

 _It is almost over._

He very nearly screams back.


	10. one-way ticket (b)

**Ch. 10:** **one-way ticket (b)**

 **Notes:**

the response to the last chapter was INSANE and you are all SO NICE and I am SO sorry this took so long. turns out working two jobs while taking a full courseload can be very time-consuming lmao who knew?

The body is falling, falling, falling. The empty air that envelopes it waits with bated breath, as if the desolate world is waiting, anticipating, for it to finally hit the water.  
…

Steve has never been bothered by rain.

As he pulls his motorcycle up to the curb, sending a wave of dirty New York street water cascading into his boots, though, he decides he could do without it.

He pulls his helmet off, and his head is immediately drenched by the water that seems to be cascading out of the sky in literal sheets. The slog up to the door of the condo he's in front of seems much longer than usual, and by the time he rings the doorbell, Steve is pretty sure his skin is pruning.

The door cracks open thirty seconds later, and Steve tries not to think about the fact that his hair is completely plastered to his forehead.

"Steve?"

"Hey, Buck," he says, and his voice is utter exhaustion. It's scraped knees and broken bones and getting beaten up in alleyways and the feeling of Brooklyn sidewalks hard against his cheek. He blames it on the rain. "Can I come in?"

Thirty minutes later, he's freshly showered, in dry clothes, and sitting on the couch in front of a comfortably crackling fire. The feeling is starting to return to his joints, and when he thanks Bucky for handing him a mug of steaming tea, his voice is a little stronger.

"So," Bucky says, settling in next to him, "What's up?"

"I just wanted to come by and say hello. How've you been?"

Bucky shoots him a disbelieving look but shrugs and says, "Same as always. Working on it. Sam's been really helpful, helping me work through all the trauma stuff. Clint, too. He has a lot of good strategies to stay grounded, separate what's real and what's not, you know. It's really nice to have someone who's gone through the mind-controlling thing."

That had been Natasha's idea, months ago. Steve wonders if she'll ever know how helpful it's been.

"That's really awesome, Buck. I'm really happy for you."

"Yeah. I'm really glad I'm finally back, you know. I feel like I'm finally making progress, and this time it's for real. Like, this time, I'm here to stay."

Bucky grins, and the genuine happiness in his eyes emits a soft glow that warms Steve's fingertips and thaws the chill that has settled in him.

"Thanks, man," he says. "I just needed to get away for a while."

Bucky nods, eyes roving over Steve's face. "You wanna talk about it?"

Steve sighs, leaning forward to set the mug down. "I mean, no."

"Yeah, you do. Talk."

Steve straightens up, mock-glaring at him. "Sam's rubbed off on you, I see."

He flashes him an innocent grin, but then his face settles into an expectant expression and Steve can tell there is no way out of this.

"It's not—I just—I'm worried," he mumbles, suddenly very interested in the fraying thread in the hem of his borrowed sweatpants.

"About her?"

"Yeah." He sees Bucky open his mouth to speak, and continues quickly, "I know it's stupid. I know she can handle herself, she's a badass, I _know_. But she's just one person. Surrounded by hundreds of very, very, bad people. And even if I know, intellectually, that she could take them, I just—"

"I know," Bucky says softly, "I know how much she means to you."

"I'm just—she shouldn't have had to do it alone. That was the point of the Avengers, right? So that we'd have a team. People who'd have our backs."

"Yeah, well, we both know that doesn't always work out." His voice is slightly bitter, and as Steve looks up at him he realizes that he may not be the only one who spends sleepless nights thinking about the time lost between them.

A silence stretches out between them, and the crackling of the fire suddenly seems much louder.

"I'm sorry I never came back and looked for you," Steve says quietly. "I'm sorry I gave you up as dead."

Bucky shakes his head. "Nobody could've predicted what happened. And I'm here now."

"Yeah, but you—you probably would've looked for me. If I had fallen."

He shakes his head, again, eyes softening. "It's okay. Really. Anyone would've thought me dead. And I know you grieved, I know what you've done to get me to where I am today. I know you care about me, Steve. I know you'd do it now, if it happened again. And that's all that matters. All's well that ends well, right?"

"I just want you to know—this Natasha thing, I don't—you'll always be my best friend, nobody could ever—"

Bucky laughs, a full, genuine, laugh, and the tension breaks. "Good God, I'm not _jealous_ , Steve. Jesus."

"I'm not—I'm just saying," Steve protests, fighting back a grin, "Just to make sure."

Bucky snorts, eyes still full of mirth. "Come _on_. I'm happy for you. I can't believe there was a time I thought you'd never find love."

"Shut up."

There's a brief, comfortable pause.

"How long has it been, again?"

"She left in September," Steve says, feeling some of the weight seep back into his shoulders. "So eight months, give or take."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"I wish I could be there more often."

"No," Steve says adamantly, shaking his head, "No, don't say that. You should be here, getting better. You have to do what's best for yourself, Buck. And as much as I wish you were there with me, I want for you to make a full recovery more. You come back whenever you're ready, not when you feel like you should."

Bucky's eyes don't move, locked onto Steve's with a force that intensifies every emotion he's feeling tenfold, and as he tears his gaze away to stare at the floor he can feel the cracks start to form.

"I saw her, the other day. At the police station. There were bruises all over her body, and I think her ribs were broken. That guy, Chetwynd, he's hurting her. And she can't do anything about it. Loki said the last one was particularly bad because she's been invited to the real headquarters and he wasn't, so he was jealous, and he just snapped."

"Doesn't that mean—"

"That it's almost over? Yeah, she told me that too, through Morse code, but the end is the most dangerous part. If she looks like that _now…_ "

"Steve—"

"I just want her to come home," he says, voice finally cracking. He feels Bucky's arm find its way around his shoulders, and as he tucks himself in to Bucky's side he feels the fissures spread, until they finally rupture and he lets himself completely and utterly break for the first time.

"It's gonna be okay," Bucky murmurs, and he's eighteen again, fresh out of his mom's funeral, helpless and tired and sad, his only confidant standing in front of him. Except this time, eighty years later, he isn't turning him down.

It still hurts, though. And as Bucky's arm tightens around him, he feels the pain rising in his throat, bubbling farther and farther until it finally overflows in a burst of choked-out words.

"Why won't she come home?" 

The body finally hits the water with a truly impressive splash. It floats, ever so briefly, before it starts a descent again—this time, to the bottom of the river, where it will lie for the rest of time.

…

As it turns out, summer starts a lot earlier in California.

Aaron squints against the sun as he steps out of the San Jose International Airport, head swiveling back and forth in search of the taxi pickup area.

"Hate the sun," he grumbles, kicking at the cement. "Can't see anything."

"It's kind of nice," Natasha says absently, pointing toward the line of cabs snaking around the corner of the small street they're on. "I think it's over there."

"It's way too bright," Aaron mutters as they start to walk. "No state has business being this hot right now."

"It's May."

"Still. It's so hot. I only packed one pair of shorts."

"We're only here for a few days anyway. And I bet it's nice during the winter."

Aaron lets out an unconvinced grunt as they approach the cab at the front of the line. He gets in the front, leaving Natasha to slip into the backseat. The driver (John, Natasha learns, eyes catching the nameplate on the waiter's uniform peeking out from under the seat) gives them a small nod as they each pull their doors shut.

"Where to, folks?"

Aaron reads the address for a Holiday Inn off the slip of paper he's produced from his pocket.

"It's on Jersey Island?" John interrupts, looking up from the map he's pulled up on his phone. "That's, like, a two-and-a-half-hour drive, dude. I don't know if I can—"

"We'll pay double," Aaron says brusquely. "Cover your trip back, too."

"You got all that money and you're staying in a Holiday Inn?"

"We're here on business. They pay for transportation. We pay for lodging," Aaron says, and the dangerous edge that enters his voice whenever someone asks too many questions must do its job, because John raises his eyebrows incredulously but starts driving.

"There's a car at the hotel for us," Aaron says, turning around in his seat as the car speeds down the California highway. "I figured we could check in for a little kip, and freshen up a bit before heading over—I told him we'd be there at seven."

"Sounds good," Natasha says, giving him a small smile. "I'm excited."

He grins, then turns back around to face the front. A light silence settles into the car, punctuated only by John's absentminded humming. It's a little strange, and ordinarily Natasha would rather ride in silence, but it's a bright, airy little tune that is so drastically unfitting for the situation she feels oddly comforted by it.

This, she knows, is the endgame. It's the apex of her assignment, the culmination of almost eight months of hard work, of beatings, of an unfamiliar lonesomeness, of agony. Here, now, it's all coming to a head.

One would think she'd be more nervous.

As she slips on her new tracker-infused combat boots (courtesy of Maria Hill, of course) in her standard, comfortable-but-not-too-flashy hotel room, though, she feels strangely calm.

And as she steps out of a sleek, black car in front of a massive warehouse, dirt crunching beneath her feet, her head is as clear as it has ever been.

She lets Aaron lead the way to the front door, pausing briefly behind him to snap a picture of the building using the secure photo-upload system that had come pre-installed on the phone she'd gotten in the mail two days ago.

He turns to her when he gets to the rusty double doors, a half-grin on his face. "Ready?"

She nods briefly and firmly. "Yeah."

He nods and gives the door three sharp knocks. "Is that a new phone?"

"Yeah," she says, digging her heel into the ground. "Figured I deserved an upgrade."

"That you did," Aaron says, tilting his head toward the footsteps getting steadily louder behind the doors. "That you did."

There's a rustling and grunting behind the doors as whoever is behind them pries deadbolts open (Natasha counts six), and Aaron takes a step back as the doors open with a loud groan of protest.

The newcomer steps forward through the crowd of dust that has billowed up from the floor (or the doors, she isn't sure), and stretches a hand out toward Aaron.

"Aaron," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. Ice trickles slowly down Natasha's spine. "Nice to see you."

The man shakes Aaron's hand quickly, meeting Natasha's eyes over his shoulder. He steps back to get a better look at her, and for the first time, Natasha finds herself face-to-face with the man she has worked eight months to meet.

He's a little different from the picture she'd memorized from the file that was shoved in front of her face, so long ago; his eye patch is different, his face a little more weathered, skin a little darker, but there's no mistaking him. Not when she's this close.

"Ammo," she manages, allowing a little tremor to enter her voice. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Ah, Miss Vanko," he grins, sidestepping Aaron and offering her his hand. "This has been a long time coming."

She gives him her best nervous smile. "It's a huge honor, sir. I mean, you're the biggest name in the state right now. People would _kill_ to be in your crew."

"And they have," he says, a malicious gleam in his eyes. "But you have transcended them all, haven't you? You earned your spot here. Don't be nervous."

She shakes his hand, and as she does she briefly remembers sitting across the table from Maria as she listed every single terrible thing Ammo had ever done in the middle of the night, voice low and urgent.

 _God, Natasha, I'm not kidding—the stuff he's doing, the shit he's capable of—it's what we usually get from non-human things, you know what I mean? This guy—there's no empathy, no trace of humanity left in him._ _It's kill or be killed, and too many people have already been killed._

Natasha pulls her hand away and swallows the bile rising in her throat. "Thank you. Really. It means a lot."

He nods, grinning, and turns back toward the doors with a sweeping hand gesture. "Come in. I'll give you the grand tour."

Natasha follows him through the door and down a dimly lit, winding staircase, stopping behind him when they emerge through the doorway of what, presumably, was once a basement.

It's _huge_ , she realizes with a jolt. And it's the place of people at work; there are desks in the left corner, each facing a map of New York pinned to the wall. There are blueprints scattered throughout the room, a surprisingly organized stack of weapons labeled and stored against the far wall, and what looks like a meth lab in another corner.

"You, um, cook your own stuff?"

He glances back at her. "Very perceptive. Yes, we do. It's a lot cheaper than buying from suppliers, and we make a good profit off it. If we have the means to, you know, why not?"

"It's a big source of revenue," Aaron says, moving past her to walk towards the blueprints pinned to the wall on their right. "Keeps us running."

"Of course."

"This is pretty much it; I like to keep everything in one place because it's easier to control. And we keep things down here, so it's more inconspicuous. No fear of someone cracking open the door when we're discussing something top secret, you know."

"Uh-huh. So what made you decide to put headquarters here, of all places?"

His eyes glint mischievously, but there's something a little more malicious swimming behind them. "Police are really lax here. You know what they say—everything's legal in Jersey."

"I'm pretty sure that's New Jersey. On the other coast."

"Of course it is. But it still holds true here. And it has a nice ring to it." Ammo smiles slightly. "Feel free to look around. Nobody's here today. I was going to have them all here, introduce you, but one of our drug deals got busted two days ago and one of the guys didn't make it out of the shootout. Figured it was too late to reschedule with you, and I didn't want to take off a day. It's important that they have time just to figure everything out, recuperate."

Aaron gives a little hum of agreement as he leans closer to the blueprints, eyes narrowed in concentration. Underneath the blueprints, a myriad of headshots are taped to the wall—connections, it looks like, that Ammo wants with people all over New York. There are infamous criminals that Natasha has seen before, but there are also NYPD officers, FBI agents, and government officials that she mentally registers as "dirty."

Natasha clears her throat and stands a little taller. "You—er—give them three days? Whenever someone gets killed?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I just—I only give my guys one. But it makes sense. We're a smaller operation, so it's harder to spare people. We aren't running smoothly enough to take three days off and be able to come back and pick things up."

Ammo turns toward her slowly. "One day, huh? Must be rough. For your guys, I mean."

She shrugs. "We don't really have a choice. They understand."

He nods. "Tough leader. Does what needs to be done. I can respect that."

She gives him a half-grimace, half-smile, and walks slowly toward the desks in the corner, feeling his eyes on her back.

"Where did you say you were from, again?"

She stops. "New York, originally. But I did a lot of international work. Spent some time in Russia."

"Oh, nice. And who did you say your father was?"

She turns slowly, weight in her heels. She makes direct eye contact with him and injects a false confidence in her voice as she says, "I didn't."

There's a moment of tense silence, where Aaron whips around and stares at her like he can't believe the audacity, where Ammo's eyes narrow ever so slightly and Natasha briefly reconsiders everything she's said and done in the past eight months. Ammo is no idiot, and he has connections everywhere—her brief time around him has confirmed that much, at least—and now that they've met face-to-face, she knows it would be too easy for him to completely upend the persona she's created, should he suspect anything.

She guesses it would take maybe two hours for everything to fall apart.

Ammo grins, and her spine loosens slightly. "Well done, Aaron. She's got nerve."

He meets her eyes again, amusement in the rough lines around his face and the crinkle around his eye. "I like you."

She smiles, muscles relaxing, and as Ammo and Aaron both turn around to talk about the blueprints on the wall, she slips her phone out of her pocket.

Two hours is all she needs, anyway.  
…

On the morning of May 6th, Nick Fury receives an encrypted file.

The file is labeled "evidence", and it contains multiple photographs, names of dirty FBI agents, and detailed blueprints of high-security buildings. Ten minutes later, his screen lights up with a set of coordinates that pull up a warehouse in Jersey Island, California.

An hour later, he addresses the gaggle of Avengers that are at the facility.

"We'll do some recon, determine the amount of firepower that we actually need. Don't want to make a big move until we absolutely have to. He has eyes everywhere, and that'll definitely attract his attention," he says, to general murmurs of assent.

At noon, he boards a Quinjet bound for California, Maria Hill and Wanda Maximoff in tow.

The rest of the day is quiet, the heroes loping around the facility with the knowledge that the jet has a projected arrival time that night, and that no news is expected before then.

At six-thirty that evening, Sharon Carter emerges from Maria Hill's office, mouth set in a line. Steve and Tony, playing cards outside her door, stand immediately.

"Are they there? What'd they say?"

"Suit up," she says grimly. "Something isn't right."


	11. hostage on the pier

**Ch. 11: hostage on the pier**

 **Notes:**

for stan lee,  
who is immortalized  
by the pages jam-packed with screaming color, in the hands of eager children and adults alike  
by the screens, large and small, filled with characters finding homes in the hearts and minds of millions  
and by those his stories have inspired, living and walking monuments to his work.

thankful for you today.

…

I KNOW this is the worst possible time to update because all my american readers are celebrating with their families and not reading fanfic but you know what! I don't care! this chapter took me so long and I am just so happy it's done ok enjoy  
…

At six o'clock on the evening of May 6th, Sharon Carter watches every Avengers-issued tracker-embedded weapon move slowly across Maria Hill's computer screen. It takes her five minutes of calculations to identify their likely destination: a warehouse on the docks in Brooklyn.

Nick Fury scans a different warehouse in Jersey Island, California, and finds that it is completely and utterly deserted. Behind him, Maria Hill reports that Agent Romanoff's tracker went dark six hours ago.

Wanda Maximoff wipes the warehouse out.

Matthew Murdock sits in Anna Vanko's apartment, waiting restlessly for news of her return. Loki Odinson observes him quietly from an armchair.

Natasha Romanoff thanks a flight attendant as she disembarks a direct flight from San Jose to New York. Her two companions echo her sentiments before following her off the plane.

It all falls apart that evening.

In retrospect, it starts falling apart earlier that day, when Ammo steps into a private bathroom inside the San Jose International Airport to make a phone call.

It starts falling apart the year before, when Nick Fury welcomes the FBI director into his office for a five-hour meeting about a highly dangerous crime network forming quietly throughout the boroughs of New York.

It starts falling apart earlier that decade, when a certain Vietnam veteran buys a mob boss a few drinks and discovers just how easy it would be for him to conquer New York, so long as he is willing to take his time. He has all the time in the world.

But it really, completely, falls apart that evening, starting with a text message.

 _From: Damien Chetwynd  
Everyone at the warehouse in 40 mins. No exceptions.  
Delivered: 6:30pm_

Natasha's eyes flick over the message in the backseat as the car speeds toward Brooklyn. In front of her, Aaron leans forward slightly, eyes narrowed to read it off his mounted phone without taking his hands off the steering wheel. Matthew and Loki read it together, hunched over in Anna's living room.

"I'm gonna text her," Matthew says immediately.

"I'll do it," Loki says smoothly. "Get the car."

 _To: Anna Vanko  
Do you know what this is about?  
Sent: 6:31 pm_

 _From: Anna Vanko  
Nope.  
Read: 6:32 pm_

 _From: Anna Vanko  
Ammo's here. He's with me.  
Read: 6:32 pm_

 _From: Anna Vanko  
Are you with Matthew?  
Read: 6:32 pm_

 _To: Anna Vanko  
Yes. Heading to the car as we speak.  
Sent: 6:33 pm_

 _From: Anna Vanko  
Okay  
Read: 6:34pm_

 _From: Anna Vanko  
Don't let him out of your sight.  
Read: 6:35 pm  
…_

Some thirty miles away, Sharon Carter stalks through the Avengers facility, Steve and Tony on her heels.

"I don't know what it is, but they're all gathering at a warehouse by the Brooklyn docks tonight. And we're going to be there. No suits, and no shield, Cap. Nothing too recognizable."

"Um, if I can, like, summon my suit, is that—"

"Fine, Tony," she snaps, pulling a phone out of her pocket. "But not unless you absolutely need it."

"Yep, copy. Are you calling Fury?"

Her face darkens. "He won't get here in time. I'm calling the cops."

As she disappears into the control room, Steve spins around to face Tony. "Text Bruce."

"Already on it."

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
apparently Sharon is calling a warehouse raid rn  
Sent: 6:31 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
can it wait i'm not in the mood  
Read: 6:32 pm_

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
I don't think so she seemed pretty antsy. She's calling the NYPD for backup I think  
Sent: 6:33 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
ugh is it about Natasha  
Read: 6:33 pm_

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
oh yeah sorry apparently all the gang members are gonna be there  
Sent: 6:35 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
huh. you think California was a red herring?  
Read: 6:36 pm_

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
dunno  
Sent: 6:37 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
I don't know how much help I'd be though  
Read: 6:38 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
Probably more of a nuisance tbh  
Read: 6:38 pm_

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
Don't say that  
Sent: 6:39 pm_

 _To: Bruce Bummer  
I'll let you know if we need you does that work  
Sent: 6:39 pm_

 _From: Bruce Bummer  
yeah ok text me when you know more  
Read: 6:40 pm  
…_

Matthew and Loki arrive at the warehouse at 7:00 sharp, stepping into the crowd of men slowly making their way through the double doors. As Matthew walks toward the entrance without catching a sight of Anna, a knot of anxiety knits itself in his stomach.

"Come on," Loki mutters as they step across the threshold, grabbing Matthew by the arm. He leads Matthew into a dark, secluded corner, stopping directly in front of the emergency exit. Matthew tenses as Loki releases his elbow, ears full of the waves crashing against the shore behind the doors. He turns to glance at the center of the room, where Damien sits in the chair Charlie spent his last moments in, glaring at the floor. The pale, flickering light sharpens his features and gives his scowl an ominous, almost evil look.

The knot in his stomach tightens a little.

Matthew isn't sure how long they wait in the warehouse. Damien stays in his chair the entire time, eyes never leaving the ground, and though the crowd grows increasingly restless nobody has the courage to approach him. Instead, everyone keeps to themselves, standing in little pockets and whispering to each other.

The quiet murmur of conversation ceases as the doors slam open, revealing Aaron's bulky profile silhouetted against the setting sun outside. He lumbers through the door without saying anything, walks past the staircases that lead to the other three floors, and settles into place near his crew. The curious eyes of the crowd, intent on following his path, fail to see Anna Vanko slipping through the doorway and discreetly sliding along the wall to join her friends.

Matthew nods to her, but his vocal greeting fades in his throat as a third person appears in the doorway. The crowd snaps to attention immediately, and as he takes in the man's presence, a thrill of fear runs quickly down his spine.

"Wait, is that—"

The rest of his question is drowned out by the mutters that have suddenly resumed throughout the crowd, much louder this time.

"Alright, shut up," Damien bellows, finally rising out of his chair. The whispers quiet instantly. "We're in some deep shit. The Feds found our headquarters and are raiding them as we speak. Every one of our connections is getting arrested tonight. So I called this emergency meeting—" he pauses as a wave of surprise ripples through the crowd, "—to figure out where we go from here."

Noise swells through the crowd again, and Anna takes the opportunity to turn toward Loki.

"Listen," she hisses, "You need to get out of here. Take Matthew with you."

Matthew's eyes widen. "No—"

She meets his eyes, her hand closing briefly around his wrist. "Do as I say. Trust me."

Every one of his instincts is screaming at him to object, to insist on staying with her, but he allows himself to be pulled away. Loki silently cracks the emergency exit door open with a well-practiced movement and steps aside to let Matthew slip through. Matthew backs out through the door, trying to keep the inside of the warehouse in his view for as long as possible, and as Loki finally shoves him out of sight, he turns around—

—and finds himself face-to-face with an oddly familiar man.

He has only just placed the man's bewildered face when the brown eyes lock onto something behind him.

Tony Stark's eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight of the man who has just followed Matthew out the door. "Loki?"

"Oh, no," Matthew hears Loki say from over his shoulder. The door catches on something and doesn't close, but none of them move to shut it.

The three of them stand like that, frozen in shock, for what seems like an eternity. And then a gunshot explodes from the building behind them.

This time, Matthew acts without thinking; he dives for the door before Loki even has time to react, yanking it back open and darting into the room. He is greeted by pure chaos—NYPD officers, clad in full riot gear, are pouring through the main entrance, bullets spraying indiscriminately on their way in. SWAT team members crawl through the windows like spiders, sending gang members careening backwards with yells of shock. Peppered in throughout the deafening gunshots blanketing the warehouse floor are screams of agony that advertise a bullet finding its mark.

Matthew sprints toward the pile of discarded shelves and tables against the wall and slides down behind them, chest heaving. Through a crack in his makeshift barricade, he can see practically the entire floor—there are bodies _everywhere_ , and making out individual faces is practically impossible.

His gaze rakes the crowd desperately, but to no fruition—Anna Vanko has vanished.  
…

If they get out of this alive, Tony is going to build something and then blow it up. He's gonna blow it up so hard.

"Romanoff—she's in there," Loki groans, head swiveling to look in horror at the now-shut emergency exit door.

Tony grunts, fingers flying over his phone screen. Bruce picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"You need to get here right now. Off the docks on 19th street. The warehouse."

"I—Okay, hang on—"

"No, Banner, you have to get here _right now_."

"Why—"

"They're shooting at the warehouse and Natasha is stuck in there, just _get here_."

Bruce curses before hanging up, and Tony shoves his phone back in his pocket as he turns away from the wall.

"I'm gonna try and call this off. You gotta go, man."

Loki, for once, looks slightly bewildered. "But the boy—he went back in—"

Tony turns back around, slowly, suddenly feeling very tired. "Look, dude. You always knew you were going to have to run. You always have to."

"But—"

"I can't guarantee you immunity," Tony interrupts. "I don't know what's going to happen tonight. If she—if something goes wrong, we lose our kingpin. We have no bargaining power. And then Fury, the FBI, whoever—they do whatever they want with you."

Loki's gaze flickers briefly to the dark expanse of the bay stretching out behind the pier.

Tony's hand touches Loki's shoulder, ever so fleetingly.

"Go," he whispers. Loki opens his mouth to reply, but Tony is already sprinting along the side of the building.

Sharon looks up in alarm as he rounds the corner. "Tony, what—"

"We have to call them off," he gasps. "Now."

"We can't—"

"Natasha's in there," he yells. Steve's head snaps up from the computer inside the tech van. "Call them off."

"Tony, we can't—everyone's already in there, they know we're here—if we pull back now, they'll just come after us—"

She finishes her sentence, presumably, but Tony is no longer listening; Steve is tearing himself out of the van and Tony turns on his heel to join him, the two of them flying across the parking lot.

They skid to a stop directly inside the entrance; bullets are flying everywhere, and it takes them a second to gather their wits and take in their surroundings. The two of them make their way slowly along the wall in search of a better vantage point, Tony picking a Ruger off the floor and firing it over Steve's shoulder whenever someone gets too close. They move past dozens of dead bodies, NYPD and gang members alike, past a pile of shelves near the emergency exit, and finally come to a halt beside a mountain of boxes piled against the opposite wall.

Tony has barely opened his mouth to suggest using them cover when the mountain of boxes moves. He spins wildly, finger tensing on the trigger, only to find a gun pointing directly at his face.

Behind the gun is a gaunt face, an unkempt mop of blonde hair, and a pair of green eyes that make his heart stop in his chest.

Steve staggers beside him. " _Natasha,"_ he says hoarsely, and she lowers the gun slowly, eyes wide.

The din around them seems quieter, muffled, somehow. None of them speak, the three of them hanging in some sort of distended peace detached from the mutiny currently surrounding them.

The illusion breaks when Natasha's eyes snap to something behind Tony, and before he has a chance to turn, she fires the gun in her hand and someone yells behind him.

"Behind these boxes," she says grimly, beckoning them forward. "Hurry."

"The emergency exit," Natasha yells above the noise once everyone is huddled behind their cardboard blockade. "If we can just get out, we'll be fine. Are either of you armed?"

"Tony is, he found a gun on the ground—Sharon told us not to suit up, we didn't know this was gonna be a war zone. Nobody was supposed to shoot until we'd done some recon—"

Her mouth twists into a grim smile. "Yeah, I think that was my fault." She pauses briefly. "Tony goes first. I'll bring up the rear. That way Steve doesn't have to deck a puny human and accidentally reveal his identity."

Tony snorts. "I don't know that it matters anymore, but okay."

"It _does_ matter. The moment people realize who you are, every single enemy bullet is aimed at us. We can't—"

"Okay, okay, jeez. Just three normal people making a normal break for the exit. Got it."

They shuffle into position as quickly as possible, Tony placing one hand on the wall to brace for his start. He glances back and takes a deep breath. "Ready?"

They nod, faces identical masks of determination.

"Okay," he breathes, right leg tensing behind him. "One…two…three…"

He takes off, adrenaline pumping, and everything seems louder and harsher and he is hyperaware of every little thing happening around him. Only one person challenges them on their way out—a skinny little man who takes aim from beside the staircase—but Natasha mows him down with little issue, and as he slams through the door, Tony distantly realizes that everyone else must be too wrapped up in their individual battles to notice three people heading towards the exit.

He keeps running until they make it around the building and across the parking lot, feet pounding on the cement. Sharon is waiting outside the tech van, foot tapping nervously, and he comes to a stop in front of her, bending down to catch his breath.

"I am way too old for this," he pants, hands on his knees. "Holy shit."

"What happened? Where's Natasha?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, not sounding winded at all. "She's right here—"

His voice trails off, and as Tony whips around he sees Steve staring at a wide-open expanse of completely empty parking lot.

"I don't—she was right behind us—"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, what kind of dumbass question is that?"

"I'm just saying, I don't— _Steve, don't!"_

Sharon and Tony both make moves toward his elbow, but they are far too slow; Steve has taken off again, this time making no effort to mask his speed. He disappears through the doors just as a car screeches to a stop beside the van, and a disheveled man tumbles out.

"Where is she?" Bruce Banner demands, picking himself up off the ground.

"Still inside, we saw her but somehow lost her—Steve's gone back in—Clint's keeping a perimeter so none of them get out—"

"Jesus," Bruce says, running a hand through his hair. "It's a good thing the Hulk won't come out anymore."

Tony digs his toe into the ground as a fresh round of police cars pours into the parking lot, sirens wailing. "Everything's fucked," he mutters. "I have to do something."  
…

Anna Vanko is going to die at 7:30 on May 6th.

She knows this, and is mostly at peace with it. She has known it for about an hour, ever since that first text message graced her phone: her time in this operation is up. She has done what she came here to do, after all. The bulk of her work is done. The only thing remaining is cleaning up the pieces, and she doesn't have to be there for that.

She is mostly at peace with it, but a pang of regret still finds its way into her gut as she watches Matthew and Loki step toward the emergency exit door.

"First things first," Damien spits as the door cracks open and two people slip out, "We disinfect our personnel."

He backs up a few steps and nods toward Aaron, who steps into the light. She braces herself for his glare, and when it finds her, she is somewhat surprised that her blood runs only slightly faster through her veins.

A sinister sneer spreads across his face. "Miss Vanko. Why don't you join me?"

Her steps echo throughout the silent warehouse as she makes her way into the center of the room, each step a number on the countdown to the end.

"Anna Vanko," Aaron says quietly, unsheathing a sleek handgun from his belt. "Do I need to remind you what we do to rats in this organization?"

She shakes her head once. "No," she says, loudly and clearly.

He raises the gun leisurely and lets the barrel point at her forehead for a brief moment. Her heart, for all its loyalty, starts pounding deafeningly in her chest, as if a reminder that this is its last stand, that these are its last moments.

His finger tightens on the trigger, and her eyes, against her will, flutter shut.

The gunshot sounds, but only after she hears Damien yell in shock, and the accompanying pain and darkness never come. Her eyes fly back open, only to find Aaron keeled over on the floor, blood pooling underneath him.

A single arrow is sprouting from his neck.

In the second it takes for the crowd to recover, (she distinctly hears someone behind her mutter, "an _arrow?_ In this century?"), Natasha's brain puts the puzzle together: the gunshot came from Damien, not Aaron, and was aimed at the person she knows is currently climbing through the rafters, not her. Damien's hands are now empty; she spots a second arrow buried in a crate behind him that she guesses made him drop the gun in shock.

The door clangs open, and the sight of a horde of police officers is all it takes to jolt everyone into action. She dives for Aaron's gun as the air above her explodes, and is just about to tug it out of his now-limp hand when a hand yanks her backwards.

Natasha has just enough time to look up and identify her assailant when his shoe connects with her stomach, sending her reeling backwards.

"What do you think you're doing?" Damien snarls, but she is far past listening; her blood is roaring in her ears and her vision is tinted red and she has been waiting for this moment for too long. She launches herself off the ground, jaw clenched, and surprise flashes across his face as her heel lands on his thigh. Her legs are around his neck a second later, and his cry of pain as she wrestles him to the ground is lost in the screams around them. She tightens her thigh around his neck, pure hatred coursing through her veins, and her awareness of her surroundings gradually returns only as his thrashing starts to slow.

When the light leaves his eyes and his body falls limp, Natasha scrambles quickly back towards Aaron's slumped figure, collects the handgun now loose at his side, and looks desperately around for cover. Her gaze lands on a pile of boxes stacked against the adjacent wall, and as she sees Damien's friend take aim at an NYPD officer, she takes off.

Natasha is hunkered down behind the cardboard, trying to figure out her next move, when she hears footsteps coming close.

 _Too_ close.

She waits until they come to a stop right outside her makeshift shelter, shoves a box out of the way, and points her gun—

—directly into Tony Stark's face.

Her escape plan is really the best it could be, she thinks, as she sprints after Steve. Bringing up the rear is the best position for her; she is most familiar with their surroundings, and therefore best equipped to react should anyone try to follow them out. Her arrangement has accounted for most of the moving parts in this highly complicated situation.

Except for one, apparently.

The rogue variable takes the form of a fearful voice calling her name from beside the emergency exit.

She whips her head around and sees Matthew cowering behind a shelf, eyes desperate.

The decision hardly even needs to be made; she skids to a stop and turns sharply to join him, allowing the door to slam shut behind Steve's disappearing back.

Her presence seems to embolden Matthew—he stands, albeit somewhat shakily, and grabs her arm for support.

"I've got you," she says encouragingly. "Come on."

He scrambles for the door and throws his weight against it, but it stays unforgivingly shut.

"It's jammed," he moans. "We're dead."

She pulls him back behind the shelf, and as they drop to their knees her eye catches the staircase, now unguarded.

"The fire escape," she hisses. "If we can just get onto the roof, we can climb down."

Matthew nods frantically, eyes locking onto the stairway.

"You go first—I'm armed, so it's probably best if I follow you."

He nods again, and suddenly they're both sprinting back across the warehouse. Natasha has to fire too many bullets to count, and everything is a blur as they fly up the stairs, but they both somehow manage to drag themselves onto the second floor.

The floor is guarded by a single unarmed man, and Natasha feels a slight pang as she pulls the trigger once again. Her pity dissipates as soon as the gun clicks feebly in her hand without dislodging a bullet.

She drops it with a curse, shrugs, and swings a solid right hook into the side of his head. He buckles immediately.

"Holy shit," Matthew whispers, eyes as wide as saucers.

"Come on, just _go!_ "

They make it onto the roof before it all starts to go downhill.  
…

As Steve bursts through the main entrance once again, he is shocked at how quickly the situation inside has deteriorated. Bodies are strewn across the floor, and he spares them only a quick glance as he jumps over them to ensure that he is not leaping over Natasha. The shootout is slowly ebbing, largely because most of its participants are either dead or moaning in pain on the floor, and as he weaves around the warehouse, he mostly foregoes searching for cover, ducking and diving to avoid the occasional bullet.

He is seriously considering yelling her name when he sees her—a flash of platinum blonde zipping up the staircase in the far corner. He takes off after her without a second thought. She's following someone—protecting him, it looks like—and he sighs in relief when he sees that she still has a gun in her hand.

He's rounding the corner on the second floor when a massive body crashes into him, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

"Ah, Steve Rogers," the man says, cocking a gun and pointing it at his face. "What an honor."

Steve blinks, flinching slightly as he takes in the eye patch and buzzcut. "Ammo."

Ammo grins maliciously and hooks a boot underneath Steve's hip. "Come on," he sneers. "Get up. We're gonna go for a little walk."

Steve gets up slowly, eyeing the silver pistol tracking his every move. He lifts his hands above his head as he starts walking, the pistol prodding him in the back every few seconds. Every step he takes is deliberately unhurried, and he prays with every fiber of being that he can delay them enough, that when they get to the roof Natasha is already gone.

Of course, he has no such luck.

Her back is facing them when they emerge, and she's peering at something over the edge, hair whipping in the wind. Ammo forces Steve down to his knees, locking an elbow around his neck, and as Steve starts to grab at it the barrel of the pistol presses firmly against his temple. Steve drops his arms to his sides.

"Miss Vanko," Ammo calls, and Natasha freezes for a split second before turning slowly around. Her eyes widen at the sight before her, and as she raises her arms slowly Steve realizes with an unpleasant jolt that her hands are now empty. "So nice to see you."

"Ammo," she says, voice measured and calm, "Let him go. Your feud is with me, not him."

The gun digs a little harder into Steve's skull. "My feud is with both of you. You thought you could waltz in here, ruin things, and then waltz back out without me getting suspicious? I know you weren't working alone, and I know exactly who you are, Agent Romanoff."

If Natasha is surprised at all, she hides it well—her face stays blank as her eyes flicker between the ground and Ammo's face, undoubtedly trying to calculate her next move.

"So," Ammo says, almost cheerfully, "Why don't you get on your knees with your hands in the air, and then we can talk things out and maybe you'll get out of here alive. Unless you want to see just how quickly I can fire this gun through both of your heads."

"Okay," Natasha says. "Okay. Just—don't shoot."

Steve can see her mind racing as she slowly lowers herself onto her knees, her focus lasered in on the men in front of her.

She meets his eyes a split second before she moves.

He sees the flash of her hand leaving the ground, hears a grunt of pain, and feels the grip on his neck loosen ever so slightly.

(Later, after his brain has caught up, he will realize that Natasha managed to grab a loose pebble on the ground and fling it into Ammo's good eye with unerring accuracy, and he will marvel at her sheer ability to think in a crisis). In the meantime, his body reacts automatically, hammering an elbow into his captor's side and planting a firm heel into Ammo's knee. Ammo pulls in the trigger in surprise, to no effect; Steve has long spun underneath the barrel of the gun, fist slicing upwards in a vicious uppercut. His hand connects solidly with Ammo's chin, sending his head snapping backwards with a sickening crack.

Ammo's body crumples, giving out under the weight of a broken neck, and hits the ground with an underwhelming thump, but Steve, having turned back around, is far beyond caring. The man he has wanted dead for eight months is lying lifeless behind him, his FBI-thwarting operation in shambles, but none of that matters. As he stares uncomprehendingly at the expanse of roof in front of him, nothing matters.

Because Natasha is nowhere to be found.

He lurches forward, feet scrambling frantically on the ground, and as he stumbles to a stop at the edge of the building and leans over he sees her falling. Her body is almost graceful in its descent, illuminated by the moonlight in a way that seems nearly serene. The illusion is shattered as he realizes that the only thing separating her body and the cold, deadly water beneath her are seventy feet of air.

His mouth opens, perhaps to scream, perhaps to yell her name, but nothing comes out.

He is frozen, and through the haze of white noise growing steadily louder in his head he comes to a single realization: there is only one reason she would have tumbled over the edge of the roof.

A bullet fired, a body fallen.

She's been shot.


	12. fallen

Everything is happening in slow motion.

He's managed to calm Bruce down, suit up in a hidden corner of the tech van, and slip outside without attracting too much attention, but as soon as Tony takes a step back towards the warehouse, it seems like the whole world slows down.

He supposes the trigger is the ridiculously loud gunshot that sounds from on top of the warehouse.

Bruce yells from the other side of the van, and Tony sprints around to join him, legs seemingly pumping through jelly. He peers at the docks, but nothing seems to be there—and yet, Bruce is staring at the dark, moonlit waters, face taut with terror. Tony is about to ask what he's looking at when the glow of a streetlight catches a shock of familiar white-blonde hair hitting the water.

Tony takes off without a second thought, repulsors whirring, and everything speeds up again.

…

Loki Odinson has never had a problem running away.

Escaping is what he does—he enters a situation, and when it is no longer beneficial for him to be there, he leaves, generally without issue.

As he deftly unties the lone canoe from the dock, he feels a familiar twinge of guilt—it seems stronger, this time, but he ignores it all the same. (His annoyance at the fact that there are no motorboats he can hop on helps a little.)

His plan is simple: row far enough into the bay that he is no longer visible to the people on shore, and then see if he can hitch a ride back to Asgard. If he gets no response, he'll row a half mile downstream, find a dock, and work from there.

Loki makes it fifty yards past the warehouse before he looks back at it one last time, only to spot the outline of a familiar figure climbing down the fire escape. The oars drop from his hands.

He watches as the figure suddenly stops moving, stares as it starts to climb back up.

"Murdock," he mutters. "What are you doing, boy?"

The words have barely left his mouth when a gunshot cracks through the air, apparently from the rooftop, louder than the steady explosions coming from below. Loki squints, trying to make sense of what has happened, but it turns out there is no need to—he has seen the head of blonde hair that jerks off the side of the roof too often the past eight months.

He turns the boat around.

…

Matthew Murdock is afraid of heights.

He forgets about it until he's perched on the fire escape, teetering precariously on the rungs. It is far too late to mention it, he knows, but the sky is dark and there are four floors to go before he can reach the ground and the wind is _howling_ up here, so he looks up at Anna, trying not to think about accidentally missing a rung and falling into the waves he can hear crashing against the shore below him.

"I'll watch you get down first," she hisses, waving her hand at him to hurry. "Go."

His foot finds the next rung, and despite himself, he glances down quickly to find his next step. When he looks back up, Anna is no longer watching him—she's turned around so that her back is to him, and as he stares in confusion he hears her saying something that gets lost in the wind.

He tenses, hands frozen on the sides of the ladder, eyes glued to her back. She takes a step forward and raises her arms above her head, but as she does, she shifts her legs together, eliminating the gap between them.

It takes him all of five seconds to realize that, if his head were to appear over the edge of the building, it would now be hidden by her legs.

She is protecting him, still. Which means he's in danger—and so is she.

The fear in his veins vanishes as he starts to climb, and he makes it up two whole rungs before a gunshot stops him cold. His gaze, transfixed in horror on the roof, finds Anna's body jerking backwards, stumbling toward the edge. The back of her thigh hits the rail, but it doesn't stop her—her body's momentum carries her up and over the barrier, and before he knows it, she's hurtling past him through the air.

Pounding footsteps approach the side of the roof, and Matthew barely has time to feel panicked before a shockingly familiar face appears over the edge. The man doesn't even look at Matthew, but the relief he is supposed to feel never comes.

Because the hair, the nose, the piercing blue eyes—he's seen them all before in an alleyway, down the street from his apartment building.

He's also seen them on the news, in museums, plastered all over New York City.

It hits him all at once, as he hears a sickening splash, sixty feet below him— _Steve Rogers._

Matthew stares at him in shock, fingers immobilized around the cold metal of the ladder, trying to comprehend the last thirty seconds. Steve Rogers tears himself away from the edge of the roof, and Matthew forces himself to move, trying to think of a time he has ever seen Captain America use a gun.

His body is numb by the time his feet hit the narrow stretch of ground between the warehouse wall and the water, and as he starts sprinting around the building, he sees Rogers explode out of the warehouse entrance.

" _He's a good man. The best man, in fact_."

Matthew vomits outside the emergency exit door. 

… 

Bruce is standing on the dock, staring anxiously after Tony, when he hears the warehouse doors clang open. He spins to see Steve flying across the parking lot, hears Sharon ask a question.

"Ammo," Steve gasps, still running, "He shot her, he fucking _shot her—_ "

There is more to the conversation, but Bruce hears none of it—Steve is sprinting full-speed towards the edge of the dock.

"Steve," he yells as Steve gets closer and closer, "Slow down—"

Steve ignores him completely, and Bruce makes a split-second decision: as Steve moves to barrel past him, Bruce throws himself at Steve, wrapping his arms around his waist and tackling him to the ground.

"What the fu—"

"Tony went! He's over there—"

"I don't care—"

"Tony went after her, he's already there!"

"I can go too—"

"You can't do anything—"

"Don't make me go through you, Banner, because I can and I will."

"Maybe," Bruce says grimly. "But you can't get through the Hulk."

There is a moment of shocked silence. "You said—he wouldn't come out—"

Bruce sighs. "Not before. But he cares about Natasha, remember? I've felt him ever since Tony told me she was in there. He'd show up for this."

Steve looks him in the eye for a split second, and Bruce can see the decisions he's making—whether it's worth calling his bluff, and whether he actually could take the Hulk—before his jaw clenches.

Steve turns wordlessly to stare at the dark abyss of the water, a newfound desperation in his eyes, and Bruce's insides sink a little deeper.

…

It is truly _so_ much harder to see at night.

It's a stupid thought, Tony knows, but it crosses his mind all the same as he zips across the water, beaming light as far and deep as he can.

He's on his fifth trip by the warehouse when he sees it—a glimmer of silver-white, sinking slowly beneath the surface. He turns sharply and dives, the distant shouts from the docks turning muffled as he hits the water. Natasha's eyes are closed, and as Tony hauls one of her arms over his shoulders his gut sinks at the way her body sags limply by his side.

"Okay, FRIDAY," he mutters, gathering her into his arms. "Turn on the jets."

She does, and he shoots out of the water—headfirst into a solid chunk of wood.

His vision goes black for a few seconds—long enough for him to feel someone drag Natasha away from him, despite his best (feeble) efforts, and as he blinks his eyes open and rockets back to the surface, he sees the source of his possible concussion: a wooden canoe, floating a few feet away.

Inside the canoe, Loki is crouched over Natasha's motionless body, hands flying over her chest. Her jacket lies abandoned on the bench beside them, and Tony sees with a jolt that the water pooling on the floor of the canoe is stained deep, deep red.

"Sorry," Loki says hastily, tearing her shirt away to reveal a splatter of blood and a dark hole a few inches above her right hip. "Didn't stop early enough."

"You're good," Tony pants, clambering over the side of the boat. "We need to—"

Loki looks up, face full of alarm, and Tony's words break off in his chest. "No heartbeat."

Tony feels himself lurch forward, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I've got it," he says roughly. "You stop the bleeding."

Loki disappears as Tony bends over Natasha's body, tilting her head back and holding her nose closed. He breathes into her mouth twice, and as he straightens back up and starts working at her chest, he feels Loki come back and stop beside him. A towel presses firmly against the bullet wound as Tony's hands pump up and down, a steady chant of numbers barely audible under his breath.

"Come on," he mutters as he passes 27, 28, 29. "Come _on._ "

He bends back down after thirty compressions, comes back up after the second mouth-to-mouth, and as he keeps pressing at her motionless chest he feels a slow trickle of unease make its way up his spine.

"I'm not gonna let you die, wake the _fuck up,_ come _on!"_

He starts to lose hope after the third round of rescue breaths, but his hands keep pumping away, all the same. The fourth one, he decides, is the last one.

But then the fourth one comes and goes, and he keeps going.

He's on the fifth round of compressions when she suddenly comes to life beneath him.

He lurches back just in time—she rolls violently to her left and vomits aggressively over the side of the boat. She groans loudly, eyes closed, and the retching that follows is so harsh it echoes across the bay.

"Disgusting," Loki says, but he's smiling.

"Really, really, gross," Tony says, grinning widely. "Now give me that towel and _row_ , before she dies again _._ " 

…

Matthew is wiping vomit from the corners of his mouth when he finally starts to get it.

"Steve," a blond woman says, poking her head out of a van in the middle of the parking lot, "What—"

"Ammo," Rogers gasps, not breaking stride, "He shot her, he fucking _shot her_ —"

A stone drops in Matthew's stomach, but he also feels a strange sense of relief—of _course_ Captain America wasn't the shooter.

"Where is she— _Steve!_ " The blonde lady rips out of the van and follows Rogers, who is now sprinting towards the dock.

"She fell," he shouts, and he nearly throws himself over the edge of the dock before a man with wild, curly hair tackles him from behind. "What the fu—"

The two men start arguing, but neither of them seems to be trying to kill the other, so Matthew edges slowly around the corner. He is just about to start across the parking lot when a third man appears in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere.

Matthew freezes, and, raising his hands slowly above his head, takes in the newcomer's appearance.

He looks like an archer, which is positively insane, Matthew thinks, but there is definitely a quiver of arrows on his back and a bow in his hand. He's dressed in all leather, and as Matthew's incredulous eyes arrive at his face, he sees that the man doesn't seem intent on slaughtering him.

Neither of them speaks. The man gives him a slight nod, then starts walking toward the docks. He stops after a few steps and looks back at Matthew, tilting his head ever so slightly.

An invitation.

The man starts running, and Matthew follows, sprinting toward the docks a few steps behind him. They come to a stop where a group of people is already gathered at the edge of the dock, and nobody even spares Matthew a second glance.

"He shot her," Steve is in the middle of saying. "We were on the roof and he had me hostage, she got me loose and then he just—I think that's why she fell—"

"Tony's gonna find her," the blonde woman says, but there is an anxiety under her words that makes Matthew's heart beat faster. "There's no way he doesn't—"

Her words are cut off by a collective gasp from the rest of the group as the single light zipping back and forth along the warehouse wall goes into a steep dive. Nobody says anything as they wait, the light underneath the surface casting an eerie glow on the air above it.

"It should've been me," Steve says quietly, and the anguish in his eyes makes Matthew's heart clench beneath his ribs. "He was supposed to shoot me."

Nobody knows how to respond to that, either, and luckily, nobody has to—everyone gasps again as a boat slides into the light and a body is dragged into it. Tony surfaces a moment later, and the light from his suit illuminates a silhouette Matthew recognizes as Loki's, and—for a split second—Natasha's pale, lifeless face. Matthew feels his knees give out from under him, the blonde woman inhales sharply, and the archer and Steve-tackler exchange a long, helpless look.

Steve doesn't move at all. He stands, frozen, as the color drains slowly from his face. Archer-man says his name, gently, but he seems not to hear; his eyes are fixed on the canoe, and his hands curl slowly into fists as Matthew picks himself slowly off the ground.

The silence stretches into the endless void of water in front of them, hoping, waiting, aching. Seconds bleed into minutes, into what feels like hours as they wait, full of broken hope and shattered dreams and a determination that is waning by the second. They can see Tony's head periodically dipping beneath the edge of the boat, and the muscle in Steve's jaw tightens every time it comes back up with no result.

The man with the disheveled hair starts to mutter what sounds like a prayer underneath his breath after the fourth time, and even though it's clearly making everyone even more anxious no one has the heart to ask him to stop. The tension starts building; the hum of his voice gets louder and louder, erupting in a half moan, half hiss—" _please"—_ and then—and then—

Tony and Loki jerk back abruptly, and a split second later, a terrible groan, followed by loud, violent retching, finds its way across the bay and into the ears of the longing, desperate group on the docks.

Ordinarily, the sound would be highly disturbing, but Matthew would know that raspy, hoarse voice anywhere. And based on the reactions of his companions, he isn't the only one to recognize it.

A smile breaks on the messy-haired man's face, the archer exhales loudly, the blonde lady starts screaming into her radio for a medic, and Matthew feels himself go lightheaded. Steve's entire body sags, and the man who tackled him earlier grabs his shoulder, relief etched in every inch of his face.

"She's alive, Steve," he whispers, and every word is an answered plea as the boat draws closer and closer. "Nat's alive."

The shock of hearing her name for the first time sends a shot of uneasiness through Matthew's body. The relief, once so sharp and strong, recedes gradually as he realizes that he has no idea what "Nat" is even short for—it could be Natalie, could be Natalia, could be anything. The people gathered on the dock are the people who work with her, who understand her, who truly know her. The terrible understanding that has been hiding in the shadows of his mind since the day Charlie died comes rearing its ugly head, once and for all: he is nothing but a side character in her story, he realizes, a friendly bystander who was there when she needed it but will not leave a permanent mark on her life. He is no equal to the people currently around him; he is no equal to the woman currently lying half-dead in a canoe.

He doesn't even know her real name.

The boat pulls up to the dock just as an ambulance screeches to a stop in the parking lot. Everyone surges forward, only to step backward again when Tony yells at them to move, gunning himself forward with a limp body in his arms. He snaps something to Steve as he zips toward the ambulance, but Steve doesn't answer; instead, he just shakes his head and nearly knocks everyone over in his rush to follow. Matthew catches a glimpse of her hair, soaked in a repulsive mixture of water and blood, as they blow past him.

In the frenzy, Matthew sees the archer look directly at Loki. Some unspoken understanding passes between them; they both nod once, and then the archer turns on his heel and follows the rest of the mob in a sprint to the parking lot.

Matthew hangs back, watching the group fly toward the flashing blue and red lights, toward the only hope his companion for the last eight months has. A group of EMT's meets them in the parking lot, and as they strap her down Matthew sees a splatter of red completely covering her torso. He blinks rapidly, trying to change focal points, and his vision narrows to focus on the one visible sign that she is alive: her finger, tracing a line ever so softly against Steve's wrist.

A pit of sadness forms deep in his stomach as Steve dives into the back of the ambulance and the vehicle tears into the streets, siren howling. He watches as the rest of the crew piles into an assortment of cars that peel out of the parking lot, undoubtedly intent on following the ambulance. In a moment, Matthew knows, they will be waiting for an eternity in a hospital waiting room.

He wishes, more than anything, that he could be there with them, but he knows that he will not be.

"Murdock," Loki says quietly from behind him. "Let's go."

Matthew turns, slowly, as if staying on the docks longer will allow him to be there when the doctor comes back with news. "Is she gonna be okay?"

Loki sighs, a long, heavy sigh that is full of too much undeserved pain. "I don't know. But we have to leave before the police officers see us."

"But—"

"Come on," Loki says, dragging Matthew gently to the edge of the dock. "We can talk in the boat."

They make it past the warehouse before Matthew speaks, a hoarse sound that cuts through the heavy silence. "What's her name? Her real one?"

Loki stays silent for a moment, the steady swishing of the oars through the water counting the seconds before his quiet answer. "Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

"Those people—they were the Avengers. That was Iron Man. And Captain America. And Archer-dude—"

Another swish. "Clint Barton. Hawkeye. Yes."

"So, is she—is she an Avenger?"

Loki turns slightly, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Also yes."

"Why don't I know her, then?"

The question runs deeper than the forced casual tone of his voice, and from the shadow that crosses Loki's face he knows that Loki understands what he means.

"She prefers to operate in secrecy," he says, not unkindly. "Always has. It's just how she works. It's much easier to manipulate people when they don't know anything about you."

The answer does nothing to alleviate the discomfort that has pooled in Matthew's stomach, but his eyes land on the blood-soaked towel wadded up in the corner of the canoe and he decides to move on.

"Are you an Avenger, then, too?

Loki laughs, a short, humorless sound that echoes off the surrounding waves. "No," he says, a bitter edge to his voice. "I am not."

They both fall silent after that.

It occurs to Matthew, as they row into the bottomless darkness of the night, that he's finally doing it—he's running. He's running, away from the mobs, the gangs, the drugs; he's running out of the life he has always wanted to leave. He's getting out.

He just wishes Natasha could be there to see it.


	13. wish you were here

**Notes:**

this chapter did NOT want to be written. in my attempts to avoid writing this I got a truly astounding amount of LSAT studying done lmao this one was STUBBORN

also I don't want to inflate everyone's expectations but I am very excited for one (1) specific chapter of this. I haven't decided whether to include it as the penultimate chapter or separate it as an epilogue but wow I am excited to write it!

like dan goor, I am not a doctor, so if any of this was inaccurate or just impossible please forgive me. I tried to do some research but honestly was not finding a lot of helpful information so i just tried my best.

ok sorry for all that! enjoy the chapter and welcome to the murder

tw: implied sexual assault

As she stands on the edge of the dock, neck craning in an effort to get a better glimpse of the light currently shifting underneath the surface of the bay, Sharon Carter is singularly focused on finding her missing friend.

(They _are_ friends, she's decided—somewhere along the line, the only two prominent female agents not tied to Fury's every move must have forged a type of connection that only people in that position can.)

Her colleagues surround her, standing so close she can hear their shaky exhales, and despite the terrible desperation hovering in the air around them she can feel a sense of camaraderie settle in the atmosphere.

As awful as this is, she knows, they are all experiencing it together—a singular unit, facing the unthinkable.

Of course, any semblance of solace vanishes as soon as Tony surfaces, giving way to the tense, aching fear that seems to grow stronger with every silent second that passes.

Bruce starts mumbling a couple of long, torturous minutes in, and the sound of the low, frantic drone of his voice makes Sharon's heart beat faster and her breath shorten.

She is seriously wondering if her heart is going to give out right there on the dock when the two shadowy figures on the boat lurch backwards and a loud, agonized moan breaks through the tension that has settled over the surface of the water.

Everything is a bit of a blur after that—she calls for a medic, Tony carries Natasha's startlingly limp body through the throng of people with little more than a snapped order to stand back, and as they all gather around the ambulance she sees Natasha's fingers unfurl and her hand move, ever so slightly, in Steve's direction.

Reaching for each other, always.

He breaks through the crowd immediately, grabbing the edge of her gurney and placing the other hand lightly on her side.

"I'm here," he mutters as he lowers his head, fingers brushing softly over her skin. "I'm here, I'm sorry—"

The rest of his words are drowned out by the deafening wail of sirens and the shouts of the EMTs, but Sharon can see his mouth moving, undoubtedly offering a low, steady stream of support and reassurance. Natasha's eyes have closed again, but her finger is moving lightly across Steve's wrist—and as Sharon glances around, she sees that every gaze is fixed on that singular sign of their friend's consciousness. There is an odd sense of reverence in the air, an unwillingness to disturb the scene in front of them.

This makeshift peace is broken a few seconds later, when two paramedics bustle forward to wheel the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Steve moves automatically to follow, but one of them throws out an arm that stops him in his tracks.

"We can't have anyone else in the ambulance," the paramedic says apologetically. "Company policy."

Steve looks very much like he wants to argue, or maybe just punch his way through, but his mouth has barely opened before Sharon hears herself interrupt.

"Let him in," she says roughly, stepping forward. "Sir."

"But—"

"RCA Ambulance Service? Leizer Gewirtzman is your CEO, right? I have business with him. I'll explain it to him myself. Anyone tries anything, just direct them to Sharon Carter."

The paramedic hesitates, and Steve takes the opportunity to leap into the back of the vehicle.

"He's going," Sharon says, turning towards her own car. "End of story."

She walks away without glancing back, but the sounds of a door slamming and wheels screeching tell her that the ambulance is leaving with Steve inside it. The rest of them pile into the remaining cars in the lot to follow, and Sharon doesn't fully breathe until the warehouse is out of sight.

The car is halfway to the hospital when her phone lights up with an incoming call, the words "Nick Fury" harsh and bright in the darkness of the vehicle.

She curses as she fumbles for the phone, eyes never leaving the road. Clint, next to her, grabs it and shoves it into her hand as he hits the green "answer" button.

"Agent Carter."

"Have you _lost your mind_?"

It takes everything Sharon has to keep her response calm, and even then a bit of an angry tremor enters her voice. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir."

"Why am I getting reports that you led a group of Avengers to the scene of a shootout?"

Sharon slams on the gas a little harder than necessary, sending her passengers jolting backwards with varying degrees of indignant yelps, and grits her teeth as Fury keeps talking.

"I believe you're well aware that we're already struggling considerably with our reputation? I'm doing everything I can not to get this group of people branded as _war criminals,_ and you have the audacity to stick our noses in even more places they don't belong? I'm gone for _nine hours_ and you decide to interfere in an active crime scene—"

"I was trying to _save your agent!"_ she snaps, and the voice at the other end of the line falls silent, perhaps in shock at her defiance. "While you were gone on your fun little vacation, they brought everyone to their Brooklyn warehouse. _Everyone_. They were going to kill Natasha and you were thousands of miles away, so I decided to fucking _do something_. The fact that you would even _think_ —"

"Ammo was there?" Fury interrupts, his voice substantially quieter.

"Yes, he was," she says angrily. "Why do you think you had it so easy over there?"

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Why? Would it help your trust issues if you knew that my _poor leadership_ led to some terrible casualty—"

"Sharon Carter, _was anyone hurt_?"

She sighs heavily as the car pulls into the brightly lit hospital parking lot, closing her eyes briefly before she answers. "Natasha got shot."

He curses under his breath, and Sharon hears him shout orders to "make this motherfucking jet go faster" before he returns to the line, voice demanding and almost anxious. "What hospital?"

She lets him linger in silence for a moment as she steps out of the car, beckoning at her companions to hurry. They push through the engraved glass doors as she lifts the phone back to her ear.

"Brooklyn Methodist."

The waiting room is mostly empty when they walk in, the fluorescent lights on the ceiling bathing the mostly empty room in a soft, yellow glow. There are couches scattered throughout the room, presumably to make the people waiting slightly more comfortable, but as Sharon spots the singular figure hunched over on a loveseat in the corner, she is anything but.

The rest of the group shifts quietly past her to fill up the remaining sofas, each claiming one for themselves. Sharon moves to take one of the last empty ones, but as she starts to walk she feels her feet, seemingly of their own accord, take her to the loveseat in the corner.

Steve doesn't look up when she sits down next to him, but he does shift slightly, his hand clutched tightly around the edge of a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. She glances down to see what it is—a grainy, black-and-white photo of two people, seemingly taken from security camera footage.

She can't really tell from her angle who the people are, but it doesn't take much to guess.

She coughs softly, and Steve shifts in his seat again, but the sound fades into silence that comes too quickly and too heavily. They wait, the ticking from the clock mounted on the wall on their right steady and unrelenting.

"I've never had Thai food," Steve says suddenly, his words quiet and slightly choked. "It's been on my list for years, and I just have never had it."

Sharon's eyes snap to his face, which is still focused only on the paper in his hands. "Steve—"

"She loves Thai food," he whispers, and it feels like everyone in the room, even the lady at the check-in desk, has stopped breathing. "She made me put it on the list after we met because she gets it all the time. A few years ago, she tried to get me to eat some and I told her I wasn't hungry. It became a running gag, almost. She'd bring in Thai food, jokingly offer me some, and I would say no. I don't even know why we did it. It just felt like something pure, something lighthearted that we could keep for ourselves in a job that requires us to expose ourselves to the world on a daily basis."

Sharon shifts her gaze to a piece of lint on the carpet in front of her.

"Once, when we were in Brooklyn for a mission, I was showing her the places I grew up in, and I took her to get milkshakes from my favorite diner. She doesn't do dairy, but I was so intent on getting her to like the place that she drank one. She said it was the best milkshake on the whole planet. And I couldn't even take a bite of her Thai food."

The lint, buoyed by some unknown force, tumbles a few centimeters to the left.

"It was more than Thai food, too. She was always trying to get me to join the present, step by step. Cards Against Humanity. Britney Spears. Netflix. And sometimes I would do it, but most of the time I just—I just didn't. I don't even know how to use an iPhone." He snorts, then abruptly leans back until his head is resting on the back of the couch, eyes closed. "I don't know how to use an iPhone so I don't have any pictures of us and now I'm sitting in this waiting room that is too full of beige with a fucking _printout_ of _security camera_ footage—"

"Steve," Sharon interrupts, head snapping up, "Steve, I have pictures. Here—"

She puts her passcode in with slightly shaky hands and hits the Photos icon, pulling up the album from Tony's birthday party the year before. She scrolls through the images, making sure Steve can see them—it is slightly painful to see the same people now sprawled miserably in a hospital waiting room with bright faces and cheerful smiles, but she goes through them one by one anyway. She scrolls, past Tony and Bruce, both heavily inebriated and grinning stupidly at the camera, arms around each other, past a group picture, all of them laughing and pointing at each other, past picture after picture, until—

"That one," Steve says quietly, and Sharon's thumb freezes above her screen.

The picture is like something out of a carefully-curated Instagram account—it features Steve and Natasha at the bar, both with a drink in hand and happiness etched in every line of their faces. Steve is laughing at something (which, given what Sharon remembers of that party, could have been any number of things), his free arm loosely draped around Natasha's shoulders, and Natasha—

Natasha is looking at him.

Sharon hands him the phone gently, and he takes it with a murmur of thanks as leans forward and resumes his original position. The room falls back into silence, but this time it is interrupted after a much shorter interval.

"I just realized," Tony says from a few couches over. "I think I might have a concussion."

The entire room sits up immediately, a chorus of alarmed exclamations coming from every direction.

"Calm down," he says, shifting slowly into an upright position. "Loki hit me with his boat on accident."

"How are you _just_ mentioning this now?" Bruce says incredulously, hands picking at the couch cushion.

"It wasn't the time. And also, I didn't really have any symptoms except a headache, but I sort of always have a headache. It wasn't until Cap started his Thai food rant that I started getting a little nauseous, but then I thought, 'wow, he's so in love with her that it is physically grossing me out'. Except now he's stopped and I'm definitely getting more nauseous, so if I throw up—"

"Tony," Sharon says sharply, trying to mask the smile currently trying to make its way onto her face, "Go see a doctor."

"I don't wanna inconvenience—"

"You're in a _hospital!_ Go see a goddamn doctor or I will knock you out and take you to one myself."

"Fine," he grumbles, picking himself off the couch and heading toward the hallway. "Jesus."

Everyone watches his back retreat down the hallway and turn to follow the "Orthopedics" sign before swiveling their heads back around.

"I truly cannot believe he's still alive," Clint mutters, rolling his eyes. Bruce snorts into his sleeve, and Clint lets out a hearty guffaw she has never heard in her life. For some reason the sound sends Sharon over the edge—before she knows it, she is bent over laughing, somewhat hysterically, Bruce is chuckling, and even Steve has looked up from the phone and is smiling slightly. As the laughter fades, the beige of the walls seems a touch more welcoming.

Tony returns at around eleven thirty with ten bottles of water, a bottle of Tylenol, and instructions to wake him up every couple hours, should he fall asleep. His words are greeted by sounds of agreement, and he passes around the water bottles before settling back into his couch.

His back has barely touched the faux leather when an exhausted surgeon with a kind face steps through the ER entrance. "Natasha Romanoff?"

Everyone jolts off their couches at once, and the doctor's eyes widen slightly as she takes in the horde of people clambering to stand in front of her.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Gonzalez," she says, a faint smile gracing her lips. "You can all breathe easy—Natasha's going to be okay. Just want to get that out of the way first."

A visible exhale ripples through the group, and her smile grows a little wider. "You may know this, but the bullet went straight through her abdomen, which is good, because bullet removal can be a little tricky. We managed to stabilize her and prevent any further internal bleeding, which is great, and judging from the information we have about her, this is nothing she hasn't been through before."

"Yeah," Clint mutters under his breath. "She's been at the edge of death at least fifty times."

"Um, okay," Doctor Gonzalez says, clearly unsure if Clint was joking. "So, she's going to make a full recovery, but she's still asleep at the moment, and it could take her some time to wake up, especially if her general health was poor."

Everyone shuffles their feet slightly, well aware that it'll more likely be later than sooner.

"In the meantime, I do have some questions to ask all of you. First, there are some contusions on the back of her head, which makes us think she might have hit her head—"

"She fell off a roof," Sharon interrupts. "Probably hit her head when she landed in the bay."

"Right," Doctor Gonzalez nods, scribbling on her clipboard, "That would do it. Now, we think she might have a concussion, which could make recovery a little more difficult—it might just take a bit longer for her to really feel like herself again. A few more things: there are a couple lacerations on her back and shoulder that look like they were stitched up by hand—anyone know anything about those?"

"I mean, I'm not sure about this," Clint says, somewhat uncomfortably, "But her go-to is thread from a sewing kit. She's done it before, I'm sure she knows how—"

"Yes, we didn't get a good look at them because we've had to keep her on her back the entire time, but from what we've seen, they were done with good technique and don't look infected. We just wanted to be sure what the material was so we could address any possible complications." She pauses briefly before putting her pen down and looking up at the group before her, suddenly much more serious.

"I wouldn't ask you this, but I do know who you all are, and from what we have of her file I believe that she has authorized us to release this information to you."

"She has a file here?" Sharon asks.

"Maria Hill sent it over at the beginning of September."

"Of course she did."

"It's very basic—no history of medical procedures, just a list of emergency contacts and medical disclosure forms. She said her personal history is classified information and would be released on a need-to-know basis."

"Right."

"Okay, so, I don't know if you were aware of her, um, romantic relationship—"

"We were," Steve says sharply. "Why, what'd he do?"

"We don't know for sure," Gonzalez says quickly, "But the nature and placement of her other injuries are what we often see in domestic violence victims. And in those relationships, there can be a high risk of—of, um, unwanted pregnancy. She's not pregnant now, but to get a better sense of her general health and what her body has been through recently, it would be helpful to know—do you know if she's been pregnant in the recent past? Even if she didn't end up keeping it?"

"She was sterilized decades ago," Bruce says softly. "So probably not."

"Thank you." She writes something else on her clipboard and then looks up again, the smile back in her eyes. "So, do you want to see her? I can take two at a time."

Tony and Bruce move forward, and as they disappear down the hallway the rest of them return to their seats. The yellow-lit walls seem positively cheerful, now, and as Sharon settles into the couch again, she notices that her unlocked phone is still clutched tightly in Steve's hand.

There is spark of light in his eyes that she hasn't seen in months, and as she leans back with a sigh, she thinks it makes the entire room lighter.  
…

The beige of the waiting room seems significantly less unfriendly now than it did when Steve first walked in.

He's back on the couch, in the same position he has been in for the last three hours, but he is more aware, now: the terror and panic are fading, giving way to a calmness that allows him to dedicate more thought to his surroundings. The soft leather, along with the comfort of the couch, is allowing his muscles to gradually unknot and relax, and his grip on the phone in his hand loosens slightly as he takes in the paintings on the walls.

His brain, hard-wired to remember details, has already memorized the photo on the screen facing him—he can see, with his eyes closed, the crease in Natasha's shirt where his hand meets her shoulder. He has memorized the way her hair, soft and red, folds onto his hand in gentle waves; he can recall with perfect clarity the green of her eyes, focused solely on his laughing face.

She's alive. She's alive and she's here and he's going to see those eyes again.

A nurse comes through the door with Tony and Bruce, who come to a stop near Steve as Sharon and Clint rise to follow her back into the ER.

"Hey," Tony says gently. "We're gonna go—Pepper's waiting for me at home."

"Yeah," Steve says, feeling lighter than he has in months. "Good night. Hope your head feels better."

"Thanks, Cap. Call us when she wakes up, though."

"Yeah," Steve says again, nodding. "Definitely."

They make him promise to get some sleep before leaving together, leaving Steve alone in the waiting room once again. He is midway through counting the circles on the carpet design when he hears the ER door open again, sending his head jolting up.

He is at the nurse's side in seconds. Sharon and Clint walk by him with murmured goodbyes and more requests to call if Natasha should wake, he gives her the phone back, and then he's walking down a white hallway that smells sterile, somehow, and suddenly the nurse is pushing open a door marked #239 and his mind is filled with the beeping that seems to be coming from every direction.

He moves slowly into the chair by the bed, breathing deeply, and as he sits he sees her face for the first time. He is dimly aware that the nurse has retreated back into the hallway and closed the door behind her. A tube is stuck down Natasha's throat, presumably connected to an oxygen tank on the other side of her bed, and her skin is deathly pale. Her hair, now dry, is crusted over with blood, and there are multiple wires and tubes connected to her arms.

He stares at her, mind completely blank, for an eternity, and it isn't until the dripping of the bags of saline solution and blood worms its way into his ears that it hits him.

It's over.

It's over, and she's here, next to him, and according to the pulse monitor beeping away in the corner of the room, she's alive.

He grabs her hand, careful not to move the sheer mountain of wires and tubes currently plugged into her, and tries not to wince at the coldness of her skin.

"I should've brought you a blanket," he whispers, moving his chair closer to her bed. "For someone from Russia, you really do not like the cold."

She stays unmoving, her hand limp and freezing against his skin, and his jaw twitches slightly.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring you a blanket," he mutters. "God, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry—"

He feels himself break as he continues to mumble apologies, and he ducks his head into her sheets to mask the noise, unsure if he's even still apologizing for the blanket. His hand tightens around hers as the floodgates burst open, pouring every ounce of the last nine months into her bed. Everything comes out—the anguish, the isolation, the fear, and as the feeling of release swells a slow relief works its way into his stomach.

"I missed you," he says quietly, raising his head slowly. "I'm glad you're back."

She doesn't answer, but it doesn't matter; her skin is ice-cold and blood is literally being pumped into her and there is a shocking amount of dried blood caked in her hair, but he's next to her and she's here and she's alive and it's finally over. It's over.

For the moment, at least, that's more than enough.


	14. morning after

The morning of May 9th dawns soft and calm outside NewYork-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital, a few rays of light filtering through the window of room 239. The room is quiet, save for the occasional scratching of a pencil on paper and the steady beeping from a machine in the corner of the room. A bouquet of flowers sits in a vase on the bedside table, the blue, purple, and white petals vibrant against the almost-black wood.

As Bucky Barnes blows lightly on his sketchbook, sending a scatter of eraser shavings fluttering onto the floor, he glances briefly at Natasha's motionless body.

He checks every half-hour or so, because if there is a quiet development and he misses it, Steve is going to murder him in his sleep. It had been hard enough to convince him to leave the night before—Bucky had known as soon as he'd entered the room, Tony by his side, that it was going to be a battle.

It was good, Bucky thinks, that he is no longer the only person who cares about Steve; Tony was the one who'd mentioned getting Steve in the first place, and Bucky was more than content to sit back and watch him do the talking.

"Steve," Tony had said, walking through the door. "I'm taking you home."

Steve, predictably, had refused flatly, then caught sight of Bucky, who was standing as inconspicuously as possible in the doorway. "Um, Bucky?"

"Hi," he'd whispered, voice too loud in the confines of the room. "Tony brought me."

He'd watched his best friend's gaze drop to his hand, clenched tightly around his unconscious companion's, and despite everything he felt a sudden inexplicable desire to turn around and leave, Tony's plan be damned.

"We've been over this," Steve had muttered, not looking up. "I'm not leaving."

"You need to sleep, Cap, come on—"

"I'm not leaving her," Steve snapped, eyes suddenly visible and full of anger. "She's been by herself for almost a year, she is _not_ going to wake up alone."

"Steve," Bucky had said quietly, stepping forward, "Steve, she won't be alone. I'll be here. That's why Tony brought me."

The anger had faded, slowly, and as Tony had gradually coaxed Steve out of his chair Bucky had moved to replace him.

"You have to call me when she wakes up," he'd muttered as they'd passed each other, Bucky's sketchbook brushing against the side of the mattress. "Promise."

"Of course," he'd said softly. "Get some sleep."

Steve left, glancing back into the room as Tony's hand gently guided him through the doorway, and Bucky had settled into his chair, eyes running over the body in front of him. He'd stayed like that, quiet and focused, for the better part of the night, but when the analog clock on the wall hit three o'clock it suddenly became _too_ quiet. Her skin became a little too ghostly, the beeping from the pulse monitor a little too loud. He'd become restless, anxious at the sight of the once-strong and witty woman lying stock-still in front of him, and a familiar uneasiness had started to worm its way into his gut.

He'd pulled out his sketchbook, pencil tapping nervously against his leg, and as his gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on her nightstand, he'd begun to draw.

It's been four hours since then, and his pencil is still working against the heavy paper, a long, snaking stem slowly taking form beneath the graphite.

He is midway through detailing a leaf when he glances up again, only to jolt backwards at the sight of a pair of open green eyes, watching him with a somewhat disconcerting focus. His pencil falls to the ground with a clatter, and the eyes follow it, their focus shifting into faint concern.

"Holy—Oh, my god, you're awake."

Natasha smiles weakly, then appears to attempt to clear her throat. Her brow furrows as she tries again, and as Bucky scrambles for the glass of water on the table next to him, she manages to speak. Her voice is terribly raspy and far too quiet, but it still sends relief flooding through his body.

"Is that—"

He shoves the glass next to her face, moving the straw so her mouth can reach it, and as she takes several grateful swallows he sits back down, sketchbook and pencil forgotten on the floor.

She nods to him when she's done, and her head falls unceremoniously back onto the pillow as she speaks again, her voice slightly more normal.

"Is your pencil gonna be okay?"

It takes his brain a second to register the question, perhaps because it's the last one he expected her to ask. "Um, what?"

"Your pencil," she repeats, as if he is the one who has just woken up from a coma. "It fell."

"Yeah, I know, but why—"

She shrugs as best as she can with wires plugged into so much of her body. "Soft-lead pencils break easily, right? My art teacher used to tell me that if they fell, it could break all the lead inside and then every time you sharpened it, pieces of lead would just fall out. The entire pencil would be worthless."

"I didn't know you took art."

"It was part of my therapy program when I first joined SHIELD. Until one day I had a mini-breakdown because I kept thinking about how, in the KGB, I was like that pencil. Like, if something had happened to my physically, I would've been completely useless to them, and they would've just thrown me away."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, I was really unused to dealing with my emotions." The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly. "So, you sketch?"

"Um, yeah," Bucky says, brow furrowed slightly. "After I started going to therapy I just…started drawing, I guess. And then it moved to watercolor, and acrylics, and—"

"That's cool."

"It helps, I guess. It lets me focus—"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "Even though it's creative, it's kind of methodical. It quiets the brain. It never worked for me, but it did for a lot of people I knew."

He smiles slightly. "I would've thought that your first question would've been about how you ended up here."

She tries to prop herself up on her elbows, then gives up with a grunt of pain. "I didn't know how much you knew."

"I know enough."

She hesitates briefly before shifting her gaze to the ceiling. "How long has it been?"

"Two and a half days, give or take."

She lets out a long, hissing breath. "Fuck."

"Feel like you needed the sleep, though."

She gives a slightly choked laugh before turning back to face him. "Is Steve okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Perfectly fine, at least physically. Do you, um, remember—"

"I remember getting shot, but then I kind of fell off the roof, so—"

"Right," Bucky says, giving a slightly uncomfortable laugh. "Well, he killed Ammo, and then apparently ran to the docks in a panic. Tony picked you out of the water, Loki helped."

"Good," Natasha says, visibly relieved. "I was worried."

"Oh, he's fine. Been an emotional wreck, but we made him go home to sleep. I should call him, actually—" Bucky reaches for his pocket, only to stop when Natasha shakes her head.

"If I know him, he hasn't slept in two days. Maybe longer. I want to see him, but I also want to be the only person in critical health around here."

"I mean, you're right, but—"

"I've waited for nine months," Natasha says, smiling slightly. "I can wait a little more."

Bucky's hand slowly stops, then returns to his lap. "Okay."

"So, what're you drawing? Those flowers?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Those are from Pepper, by the way. Nice gesture."

"Anemones," Natasha murmurs, almost absentmindedly. "Wonder how she knew."

"How—how she knew?"

"They're my favorite," she says, eyes roving over the petals. "Always have been."

Bucky clears his throat slightly, fingers sliding over the paper of his sketchbook. "You don't seem like the type to have a favorite flower."

She laughs softly, then cuts off with a wince. "Ow. Remind me not to laugh." She tilts her head to look back at him, a curious expression on her face. "I don't usually like flowers. But anemones are weird. Every other flower has a commonly accepted meaning, right? Roses are for love, carnations for pride and beauty, daisies for innocence—"

"How do you—"

"But anemones don't. They mean different things in different cultures. In China, they symbolize illness, but Europeans used to carry them around to ward off disease. They can mean anticipation or loss, depending on who you are. Eastern cultures see them as a mark of bad luck, but Western cultures think they actually fend off evil." She pauses briefly to meet his eyes. "Different things to different people. Two-sided. Like me."

He nods, comprehension dawning slowly in his mind. "And me."

"Yeah," she says, nodding again. "You get it."

He has just opened his mouth to respond when a sharp knock cuts him off. The door cracks open and a nurse slips through, an apologetic expression on her face.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I have to do some checks now that you're awake. Is there a way you could give us a minute, Mr. Barnes?"

"How—how did you know she was awake?"

"We have all her monitors linked to our main control system. Special request from Nick Fury."

"Can that man keep his nose out of our private business for one—"

"I wouldn't be too loud," the nurses hisses, busying herself with Natasha's IV. "He's outside."

"He's _what—_ "

"He needs to debrief her—"

"She _just_ woke up, can't it wait—"

"Bucky," Natasha says quickly, "it's okay. I'll be okay."

Bucky hesitates for a brief second before standing. "Okay. I—um, I'll be right outside if you need anything. I think I'm gonna call Steve, too—do you need him to bring anything?"

"A blanket?"

"Okay," he says, picking up his sketchbook and heading towards the door. "A blanket. I'll just—"

"Wait," she says, her voice uncharacteristically shy. "Can I, um, have that sketch?"

"The sketch? Of—of the flowers?"

"Yeah," she says, almost timidly. "I just, um, I really like it, and—"

"Oh, my God," Bucky says, almost tearing the paper in half as he hastily rips it out of the sketchbook, "Of course. I can't believe you like it, no one's ever—"

"Thanks," she says as he slides it onto the table. "I love supporting starving artists."

He grins as he walks back toward the door. "Shut up."

Nick Fury is, indeed, standing in the hallway, and he gives Bucky a curt nod as they slip past each other. Bucky watches him enter the room and shut the door before taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing.

Steve doesn't answer, presumably because he is still unconscious, and after three tries Bucky gives up and calls Tony.

He hears one whole ring before Tony picks up, his voice soft and still slurred with sleep. "Hello?"

"Hi, I tried to call Steve but he wasn't picking up—"

"Yeah, he's out cold. I knocked over a vase in there and he didn't even move. Why, what's up?"

"Oh, um, Natasha's awake."

There's a muffled thump on the other line, followed by a string of curse words. "Ow—sorry—hit my head—did you say she's awake?"

"Yeah, not for long, but she's coherent—"

"Okay, let me get Steve— _wake up, you big lump of coal—_ does she need anything?— _wake UP, come on, Natasha's awake—_ we're at—I mean, we can grab something from her apartment on our way, if she wants anything— _yes, I said she's awake, get UP!"_

"Just a blanket."

A loud yelp comes through the receiver, and Bucky takes it to mean that Tony has succeeded.

"A blanket," Tony says, his voice much clearer. "Got it. We'll be there soon. Thanks, man."

The line breaks off with a click, leaving Bucky to stare at the hospital room door. 

As debriefings go, this is definitely the least conventional one Natasha has ever been through.

Nick is sitting next to her bed, eye trained on his thigh, and though the nurse has completed her tests and slipped quietly back into the hallway, he has given no indication that a debriefing is even about to take place.

Natasha would ask, but she's a little tired and her voice is rusty and she honestly doesn't have the energy to start anything, so she waits.

And waits.

She is just about to fall asleep when he coughs, slightly, and she turns her head to find that he is now looking at her, an uncharacteristic emotion in his eye.

"You must hate me," he says quietly.

It may be the painkillers, but the jolt of shock that runs through her body at his words seems dulled, somehow.

"I could never."

He doesn't say anything, just looks down again, and she sighs. "You were the reason I went straight, Nick. I haven't forgotten."

His fingers tighten slightly around the railing of her bed.

"It's not like my life wasn't dangerous before I met you," she says, wincing slightly as her voice catches in her throbbing throat. "I was doing the same thing before you found me, just for bad people. I know what I'm doing. I've always known the risks, I knew what I was getting into. I was always going to end up in a hospital room, nearly bleeding out from a gunshot wound. That's the nature of the work I do. You know that."

She pauses to grab the cup of ice chips next to her with her newly freed arm and slips one into her mouth, watching Nick as it dissolves.

"The difference is that now, I'm doing it for a better cause, at least most of the time. I'm doing it because I believe, and you believe, that putting myself at risk is worth the tiny sliver of a chance that I can make this world a better and safer place—or that I can at least keep it from getting more dangerous. Everyone else here believes it, too. And you know that. That's why you brought us together.

"The difference is that today, waking up in this hospital room, I wasn't alone."

Nick sighs heavily, fingers still working at the metal of her bedframe. "I would've thought that that was what made this harder."

She can hear the implications lying beneath her words, which makes her smile slightly. "It did," she says drily. "It definitely did. But it also made it easier. All I wanted was for it to be over, but I also—it was different knowing that someone—that something was waiting for me at the other end. That living through this mission would mean more than just getting to do another one. Made it more fulfilling, in a way."

She grins. "Not that I'm jumping to do another one, though."

He gives her a gruff smile that fades somewhat quickly, though this time the pain underlying his grave expression seems to have faded slightly. "I can't promise that I'll be able to avoid sending you on any more lengthy solitary assignments."

"I would never expect you to."

"But I will—ah—try and allow Rogers to accompany you, wherever possible."

She rolls her eyes, a faint smile hovering around her lips, but she decides to take it easy on him this time, if only because getting him to feel his emotions is a victory she wants to repeat. "Thank you."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a hint of what she thinks a smirk, and it draws Natasha's first uninhibited laugh in months.

Steve Rogers has really been doing too much hurrying lately.

It crosses his mind, briefly, as he pushes through the doors of the hospital he has become far too familiar with the last couple days; almost everything he's done the past week has been him rushing to and from different places.

If he could just sit somewhere and _relax_ , he thinks, everything would be better.

The thought dissipates as Bucky appears to give him a quick hug, and then disappears. He walks down the hallway he knows by heart, unaccompanied this time; Tony had dropped him off with a promise to be in the waiting room after parking the car, and he is achingly grateful for Tony's innate understanding of his desire to do this alone. To see her, alone, the first time.

He's pretty sure he saw Nick Fury walking through the parking lot, but he'd rushed through the doors too quickly to care.

The pounding of his heart is far too loud as he opens the door to the room that has served as his residence for the past three days, and he has to take a deep, slightly wavering breath as he steps over the threshold.

The scene he is greeted by is far beyond his imagination.

His view of the bed is obscured by a nurse, but that doesn't even bother him at the moment—what bothers him is the fact that she looks like she is trying to shove something into Natasha's arm, and from what he can hear (which is pretty much everything), Natasha absolutely does not want that thing in her arm.

"No," he hears her moan, and the sound turns his blood cold, "No, please, I don't need it—"

"It can slow your recovery process if your brain is constantly trying to grit it through pain—"

"My brain has dealt with pain almost every day of my life for the past nine months, and constantly for decades before that," Natasha snaps. "I don't need it."

"You must want it—"

"I'm not even in that much pain, I'm like a three out of ten on that scale you have on the wall, I don't need it—"

"With all due respect, that is impossible with the injuries you've sustained."

"Please," Natasha says, suddenly sounding much more defeated, "It gives me nightmares, okay? And I can't get out of them because the sleep is drug-induced. If anything is bad for my recovery, it's forcibly-induced trauma symptoms. Please—"

"Excuse me," Steve hears himself say, his voice much too calm for the way his blood is rushing through his veins. "I've been sent by Nick Fury. He says anything Agent Romanoff says goes, as long as it is not crucial for her recovery."

"Well," the nurse says, having turned at the sound of his voice, "It may not be crucial, but it would certainly help—"

"He was very clear," Steve says tersely, fingers working against the fabric of his jeans. "Boss's orders."

"Well," the nurse says again, much more sheepishly, "I suppose, if Fury said—"

"He did."

"I'll just—I'll go, then."

"Great," he says, trying his best to sound friendly. "Thank you."

He turns to watch her go, then turns back around and finds himself staring into an ocean of his favorite shade of green.

And as much as he has been thinking about this moment for the past nine months, he is utterly unprepared for it.

They stay like that for an eternity, staring at each other and refusing to believe that this is happening, that this moment is here, that the universe has finally, _finally,_ granted them this. Steve's brain is completely frozen, filled with nothing and everything at the same time.

Hers works faster than his, because of course it does, so she is the one to break the silence.

"Hey," she says, cracking a slightly embarrassed smile. "Thanks. I hate morphine."

He grins, making his way to the vacant chair beside her bed. "Who would've thought? Natasha Romanoff, the biggest anti-government hack we know, part of the War on Drugs?"

She laughs, then grimaces. "Ow. If you're gonna stop them from giving me drugs, you can't make me laugh. My ribs are too fragile for that."

He gasps in fake shock, grabbing the railing of her bed for dramatic effect. "Are you telling me you lied to that nice nurse about your pain level?"

"Oh, yeah," she says seriously. "I'm definitely at, like, a four."

He snorts loudly, and as he reaches for her hand he notices the drawing now displayed on her bedside table.

"Is that—um—"

"Oh, yeah, Bucky drew that when he was here. Anemones."

"Your favorite," Steve murmurs.

"Yeah," she says softly. "My favorite."

"Oh! That reminds me—I brought you a blanket." He reaches for the duffel bag lying by his feet and unzips it, revealing the throw blanket he has spent a good portion of the last eight months under.

Once the blanket is draped over Natasha's hospital sheets, he reaches back into the bag. "I also, um, brought you some other stuff—I wasn't sure what you would want, so I just grabbed a bunch of stuff—a change of clothes, some books, your dry shampoo—"

"Oh, my God," Natasha says, and he glances up to see a glint of mischief dancing through her eyes. "Did you go through my apartment? How did you get in there?"

"I—um—"

She grins, her eyes softening considerably. "I'm kidding. I figured you'd bully Maria into giving you my keys. What else do you have in there?"

He rifles through the bag quickly, in part to hide the flush creeping up the sides of his face. "A blow dryer, actual shampoo and conditioner, a phone charger, socks, Pepper threw in some clean underwear, and, um, I know you don't like hospital gowns, so I brought this—"

He holds up an extra-large sweatshirt with the words "I'm a Dad, a Grandpa, and a World War II Veteran" in obnoxiously red font written across the chest. Natasha lets out a delighted yelp at the sight of it, gesturing at him to give it to her.

"Is this the one I bought for you for your birthday?"

"I would never by myself a second one."

She snorts, shaking her head, but when she looks back up her eyes are uncharacteristically filled with emotion. "Thanks for bringing all this," she says, fingers working at the sweatshirt in her hands. "It really—it means a lot."

"Of course," he whispers. He leans slightly closer, holding her gaze, and the expression on her face makes his heartbeat accelerate.

Whatever is in his face must have the same effect on her, because the pulse monitor in the corner starts beeping much more quickly, causing both their heads to turn toward it.

"Snitch," she mutters, glaring at the machine.

He laughs out loud, this time, and she does too, even if she keeps wincing in pain, and it's cathartic and liberating and lasts for far longer than it should. They let the laughter fade into a comfortable silence, and as they gaze at each other in thinly-veiled disbelief Steve feels calmer than he has in months.

A faint smile makes its way across Natasha's face. "Hey," she says softly.

Steve leans back over the railing, a sense of peace settling over him as his hand finds the one it's been holding for the past three days. This time, it's warm. "Hi."

He leans in farther, and as their lips finally, _finally_ , touch, he can feel the peace lodging itself deep within his gut, and he knows—he can stop rushing. _They_ can stop rushing.

They may not have all the time in the world, but they have this moment, now, and all the moments that will come after.

They both know that's all they need.


	15. keys to the past

**Notes:**

heLLO so I decided, as a grand finale type thing, to post the last chapter and the epilogue together. In my mind, this justifies the obscene amount of time it took me to write them. I have so many thoughts and emotions about this but I will save them for the end of this fic! Enjoy

The night Natasha passes her last physical, Steve shows up at her apartment.

He's spent a good amount of the last month here, always letting himself in so that she wouldn't have to pick herself up off the couch to open the door, but tonight is different. And no matter how tempting the keys in his pocket are, tonight is the night things go back to normal.

He knocks.

Natasha answers the door with a slight confusion in her eyes, her mouth twisting into a wry smile when she sees the bag of Chinese food dangling from his fingers.

"Did you suddenly decide to be courteous again?"

He smirks. "You officially returned to being an autonomous person today, so I feel like I no longer have the right to intrude on your property under the pretense of helping you recover."

She grins and beckons him in. "Is that what the Chinese food is for?"

"Yeah, I like to be poetic," he says, kicking his shoes off. "What better way to celebrate you getting back in the game besides _really_ bringing it full circle, food and all?"

"I'm not really back in the game yet," she points out. "I still have two weeks before Fury is gonna let me go back in the field. Besides, we were at your apartment last time."

"Details," Steve says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm trying to make a romantic gesture. Stop nitpicking."

She rolls her eyes as he hands her a container of wonton soup and they both fall onto the couch in a smooth, well-rehearsed motion. He tosses her the remote, which she catches one-handed and spins deftly to point at the screen.

"Since it's my night," she says, with an overly dramatic flourish, "I get to pick."

"Why do you think I gave you the remote?"

"You don't know how to use Netflix."

"I _do_ know how to use Netflix, and I know that you know this, because I _showed_ you—"

"Cheesy rom-com, do you think?"

He snorts, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. "It's your night, Your Majesty."

She catches his eye and grins as she hits play, settling contentedly into the couch.

Her socked feet end up in his lap as soon as the words _Set It Up_ fade out of the screen, and they stay there throughout the course of the movie, leaving only as the credits start scrolling. Their empty food containers sit neatly in the bag they came in, and as Natasha stands to throw them out, Steve clears his throat.

"So, um, since you're your own person again, do you want your key back?"

She turns on her way into the kitchen, brows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"I was just—since you don't need me to help you with the day-to-day stuff, anymore, and I don't really need to let myself in and spare you movement since you've been completely cleared, I figured you might want it back. Since no one else has a key."

Her eyes narrow, though there's a hint of playfulness behind them.

"Just because you've always been so careful about security," he says quickly. "As you should be."

"Do multiple people have keys to _your_ apartment?"

"I—well, no, I just meant—"

She raises an eyebrow. "As long as you don't sell copies of it to the KGB, I think we should be fine."

"So—so, I can keep it?"

"Yes, _Captain_ ," she says, voice dripping with a sarcasm he knows is an effort to undermine the emotional significance of the moment. "You can keep it."

Steve smiles as she turns back around, making a mental note to move the key to the keychain with his own apartment keys on it.

He has a feeling he'll have it for the rest of his life.

…

Natasha wakes to the sound of explosions.

She is out of bed, fists clenched, before she even fully grasps the situation, heart hammering as she takes in the blast of color coming through the window.

Her breathing starts to slow, gradually, as another illegal firework explodes outside, the green and red illuminating Steve's body, still comfortably curled under the covers. Her body tenses as she starts walking toward the bedroom door, speed increasing with every step, and by the time she's out of the apartment and descending the staircase she is positively flying.

The air outside is surprisingly and piercingly cold, but Natasha is grateful for it—as her feet land one after another on the pavement, the sharp slice of the wind through her skin provides an aching relief. She runs, her mind blank save for a quick thank-you to her adrenaline-filled body for remembering to put shoes on, and as her tightly-clenched fists continue to pump at her sides she realizes dimly that she has no destination in mind. As she passes a bodega that looks eerily deserted in the dim yellow glow of a streetlight, she finds that she doesn't care.

It isn't until she finds herself ducking underneath the torn, battered remnants of a crime-scene caution-tape border that she realizes—this is where she was headed all along.

She slows to a brisk walk as she passes the dark, empty warehouse, the ghosts of its last inhabitants whispering in her ears. As she approaches the edge of the dock, she lowers herself gingerly into a sitting position, eyes trained on the water underneath her feet. The night is dark, enough so that her reflection is only a silhouette, slightly darker than the sea of obsidian around it.

If she stares hard enough, she can almost see Charlie's body, unmoving and lifeless somewhere in the depths below.

She doesn't move anymore, even as more fireworks explode distantly in the sky, each one illuminating the scene around her in a different color. Charlie's face fades in and out of her mind, interlaced with others she has both known and killed—scientists, government officials, friends.

Collateral damage.

The fireworks stop, and the faces do too, no longer able to capitalize on the brief moments of light to project themselves onto the water. She stays, staring into the bay, part of her immersed in the darkness and part of her willing them to come back.

She doesn't return to reality until she hears a familiar _thump_ behind her, but she doesn't turn around.

"Hi," Tony says softly, walking toward her. "Can I sit?"

She stays silent, which he naturally takes as acceptance, and as he settles onto the dock and leans against the wooden post, she knows he is not going to speak again until she speaks.

She lets both of them stew in silence for a while longer, but the practical, rational side of her has conveniently returned, which means she knows that this is not going to end until they talk.

She clears her throat, uncomfortably aware of how raspy her voice is going to be. "How did you know I was here?"

Tony shrugs, gazing out across the water. "I understand trauma," he says simply. "When Steve called and said you were gone, I figured your undercover haunts would be the best place to look. I went to your old apartment first, but this was my second guess."

Something inside Natasha sinks slightly. "You were looking for me?"

" _Everyone's_ looking for you."

"Oh, God, I didn't mean—"

"Steve said he got up to pee and you weren't there, and then when an hour passed and you still weren't back, he got a little worried. So he called in a search party."

"There were fireworks outside, and I wasn't expecting them—"

"The fireworks were at midnight, four hours ago. You've been out here for _four hours_?"

"I guess I wasn't keeping track of time, I just panicked—"

"You don't have to explain," Tony says, waving his hand. "I get it. Trust me, I did much worse when I was trying to cope after New York. I'm surprised Pepper didn't leave me for good."

Natasha's insides sink a little deeper. "Do you think Steve—"

"Oh, no," Tony says quickly, his eyes widening. "God, no, that's not what I meant. I saw what he was like when you were gone—it would take a lot more than a midnight jog for him to jump ship. What I meant was that you've obviously been through a lot more shit than I have, but you've also historically been better at dealing with it. Which means I have more experience with this emotional stuff. And I think you need to talk about it."

She grips the edge of the dock, ignoring the sting as a couple wood splinters cut into her skin. "I don't really like talking."

"And _I_ don't like getting woken up at four in the morning because my friend has gone missing," Tony says sharply, though there is still a gentle concern underlying his words. "So talk."

Natasha stares at the water for another moment before steeling herself to answer. "There was a guy named Charlie," she says, her voice low and flat. "He was Matthew—you know, my friend—he was Matthew's best friend. He was one of the people I was closest with in the entire operation. Worked really well, and a really good person. He didn't belong there."

She takes a deep breath, her eyes focusing on her feet, dangling inches above the surface of the bay. "I knew he didn't belong there, but he figured it out, too. He tried to call the cops, but they'd bugged his phone. The day after, they dragged him into the center of that warehouse and made me shoot him. And then they stuffed him into a duffle bag filled with rocks and threw him into this bay."

Tony lets out a small hiss, but otherwise stays silent.

"They were all standing around us, armed to the teeth, and I just…couldn't find a way out."

"Because there wasn't one," Tony says softly. "There was nothing else you could've done."

"I understand that, intellectually, but there's still _something_ in me that just keeps saying—"

"That it should've been you," Tony says quietly.

"Yeah. And the worst part is that a part of me believes it."

Tony shakes his head. "You and I both know how stupid that is."

Her gaze flickers to his face, briefly, before returning to the water. "I was so weak I couldn't even look at him when I did it."

Tony hesitates, his finger tracing a line on the wooden board beneath his thigh. "Empathy isn't weakness," he says slowly. "It's strength."

Natasha lets out an empty laugh. "It sure doesn't feel like it."

"I know that, sometimes, it can feel like everyone who tries to help you gets hurt. And I know that's part of the reason you push everyone away. But having empathy, being compassionate, that's a _good_ thing. It makes you a better person. You are at least ten times the person you were when you joined SHIELD. Surely you see that."

"That doesn't erase the things I've done. How many times do I kill good people, people who trust me, before I get my comeuppance?"

The silence that follows is much heavier.

"I think," Tony says carefully, "That there's a reason we—that you're still alive. You're here because you have something to contribute. A capacity—and a determination—to make the world a better place."

"It's just—I've done one thing my entire life. I did it for bad, and now I try to do it for good."

"You _do_ do it for good."

"But it's the same thing. This just made that so, so clear. I owe the world a debt, and I am trying to pay it in the same way I took it out. The red in my ledger isn't ink, it's blood. And I don't know that I'll ever be able to balance it out."

"I get that," Tony says quietly. "Really, I do. More than most people can. And I know that what my dad did—what I did—doesn't come close to what you have personally done, but indirectly? The things my family built have killed a hell of a lot of people."

Her jaw clenches slightly.

"I know what it's like to feel like you can never undo the damage you've done to the world. It makes life really shitty. But you, like me, are a practical person. And the only thing we can do is spend our lives trying to do as much as we can to make it right. Wallowing in guilt is unproductive. It sucks you into a dark void of despair you can't climb out of. And then it starts hurting other people."

"I know," she says softly. "I guess it just—it took me by surprise, how much I cared."

He smiles wanly. "Caring is a good thing. It means you don't kill as easily."

She sighs, tucking her legs onto the deck, and Tony lays a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I'm gonna call Steve, if that's okay," he says. "He's probably going insane."

Natasha nods, and he stands to walk a few feet behind her.

"Hey, I found her," she hears Tony say. "Yeah, she's okay. Probably a little cold, though. We're on the docks by that warehouse, if you wanna come get her."

It isn't until then that Natasha realizes her hands are shivering slightly.

"I didn't even realize I was cold," she mutters as Tony sits back down next to her.

"Yeah, but I did." He grins. "Steve's on his way."

"Thanks."

"Uh-huh." Tony pauses. "So is he, like, sleeping at your place now?"

" _Tony—_ "

"I'm just asking," he says, holding both hands in the air. "It's cool. Just never thought I'd see either of you in, like, a relationship."

"Yeah," Natasha says, snorting. "Me either."

"Especially not with someone like Steve. I mean, don't get me wrong, but he's, like, this paragon of goodness, and you're—"

"Not," she laughs drily. "Yeah, I know."

Tony hums softly, gazing out across the water. "Are you scared?"

She looks at him, then, her brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

"We don't exactly live normal lives," Tony says, shrugging. "We don't know how to do normal. I was terrified when I realized I had feelings for Pepper because I didn't know what that would mean for me, for her, for our future. And I was terrified that the life I had chosen to lead would make me lose her."

The air seems a little colder as she starts to speak. "You once asked me," she says slowly, "if there was anything real about me."

He looks at her uncertainly. "I didn't really know you then—"

"No, it was a valid question," she says, with a slight shake of her head. "A question I used to ask myself a lot. I showed everyone a different version of me. Natasha Romanoff was a different person to everyone. So many different faces, so many different characters, all pretending to be the same person. I told people it was a survival tactic. That it kept me alive. And it was."

She leans sideways, resting her face against the rough wooden post. "But it was also something else. You weren't the only one to imply that the 'real' Natasha, whoever she was, might've gotten lost in the crowd of carefully constructed façades. Sometimes, I hoped that she would. Because the _real_ me, the me that I have to deal with when nobody's around—it's not pretty."

"Yeah," Tony says softly.

"When I found out that HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, I got unusually rattled. The veneer cracked, and a little bit of the real me snuck out. Steve was the only one there, and instead of recoiling, he acted like it made me stronger. He was so convincing I started to believe it myself. It didn't seem as dangerous to not pretend anymore, so I started to let things slip out. And then, when it came time to burn SHIELD to the ground, I leaked my entire past."

Tony nods. "I'd actually wondered about that—"

"I was ready. And when I walked out of that meeting, I realized that I felt _good_. I didn't feel _safe_ , exactly, but I didn't feel like someone was going to kill me at any second—at least, not more than usual—even though everything I'd worked my entire life to hide was completely out in the open. And that was because of him."

"I've never really known a sense of security. My life is danger after danger, change after change, and in between, I'm preparing for the next one. I don't know what it's like to feel safe." She picks up a small pebble from the dock next to her, rolling it slowly between her fingers. "But he makes me feel like I could, someday."

The pebble drops from her fingers into the water, landing with a soft splash. "I guess I'm a little scared to lose that."

Tony gives her a small, gentle smile as a car screeches to a stop near the warehouse, headlights glaringly bright and engine exceedingly loud in the quiet of the night. "That's a fear we all have," he murmurs, watching the car's former occupant slam the door and start to sprint towards them. "But isn't it beautiful that you managed to find each other here, now? That no matter what happens in the future, the two of you are building something today?"

Natasha stands slowly as she meets his eyes, shaking the feeling back into her legs. "I suppose that's all we can ask for."

"Exactly," he says wryly. "Now, shall we go meet the man who seems to be training for the Olympic track team?"

They get a full five steps in before Steve nearly crashes into them, wrapping his arms around Natasha with a desperation that makes an unfamiliar guilt settle in her gut. "Thank God—"

"I'm gonna go," Tony says loudly. "I'll tell the others we found her."

Steve lets go of her, but he keeps a hand on her shoulder as he looks up. "Thanks, Tony."

"Yeah," Natasha says, turning to face him. "Thanks."

He winks at her and tips an imaginary hat. "No problem, milady," he says, before taking off and vanishing into the sky.

Neither Steve nor Natasha speaks as they walk towards the car, but he keeps a steady hand on her back until she climbs into the passenger seat. She grabs the blanket thrown haphazardly in the backseat and drapes it gratefully over her body as he settles into the driver's seat and turns the engine on.

"Are you cold?" He asks, fiddling with the dials.

"No."

"Don't lie to me," he says softly, turning the heat all the way up. "I can see that your lips are blue."

They sit in silence on the drive home, and as Steve pulls into the parking garage Natasha is painfully aware that he has not looked at her once.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly once he cuts the engine. "You deserve more, I'm sorry—"

"Don't," Steve says, shaking his head. "Don't do that."

"It's true—"

"It's not," Steve says flatly, the muscle in his jaw tightening. "I don't care about baggage, Natasha. I _know_ your past is full of fucked-up shit that would send most people into therapy if they just thought about it. That doesn't scare me. What scares me is you disappearing into thin air in the middle of the night because you refuse to talk about it."

"I know you're angry—"

"I'm not angry."

"You definitely are."

"Fine," he says, sounding frustrated. "I am. But it's not even—I want you to be comfortable talking about this stuff with me. You don't have to keep trying to prove that you're tough. I know that you are. We all do."

"I know," she mumbles. "That's not really what I was doing. I don't think I realized how badly this whole thing messed me up. It just took a while to hit me, and then it all came at once, and I panicked."

He doesn't say anything, just continues picking at the steering wheel, and she sighs.

"When I was undercover," she says quietly, "Matthew had a friend named Charlie."

She tells him everything, outlining her relationships with Charlie, Damien, even Aaron, and he finally looks up as her intentions become clear. He can tell, she knows, that this is no emotional soliloquy that is spilling involuntarily out of her; each and every word is a deliberate and careful detail she has chosen to disclose. Every part of this story is an olive branch, a conscious unveiling, and a promise for the future.

His eyes have softened considerably by the time she reaches Tony finding her on the docks, and he takes her hand as she recounts their conversation.

She bites her lip as she pauses, drawing the blanket more tightly around her. "I just—the pessimistic side of me says that we live crazy, crazy lives, and that things like this are dangerous. Emotionally."

He gives her a small, knowing smile. "We don't form relationships because we think they last forever. We form relationships because we're all lonely people, at heart. And we're scared that one day, we might call out into the darkness only to find no one there."

"I'm the last person to depend on for something like that."

"Five years ago, maybe. But I don't think that's true anymore."

She makes a slightly skeptical noise, and he smirks. "I'm serious. Part of growth is letting yourself grow, Natasha. It's letting yourself realize that you've become a better person."

She takes a deep breath, letting her head fall back onto the headrest. "I don't like making promises, but—I'll try my best. For this."

His eyes find hers again, full of a sincerity that both scares and comforts her. "That's all I'm asking for."

The blanket stays around her shoulders all the way into her apartment, as does his arm, and as she slips into a clean T-shirt and sweatpants she feels exhaustion start to creep up her shoulders. She is buried under the covers and half asleep by the time she feels the other side of the bed dip with Steve's weight, but the warmth that starts building inside her registers in her brain all the same.

And as the sun rises slowly outside and the two of them finally fall asleep, she feels safer than she's ever been.


	16. epilogue: doors open from both sides

Matthew would not survive in prison.

He's known that, but if there was ever any doubt, the holding cell he is currently sitting in is definitely confirmation.

His legs are bent uncomfortably to accommodate the unconventionally low bench he's sitting on, and as he glances around the cell, he finds himself weirdly repulsed by the filth lining the walls.

For someone who's been living in cheap, disgusting motels the past two months, one would think he would be used to it by now.

Loki had taken him to a nondescript diner off the coast of New Jersey, made him trade his iPhone in for a burner phone, handed him an inexplicably large wad of cash, and then disappeared off the face of the earth. (Literally. Matthew had walked into the parking lot to watch him leave, but there were no cars to be found.) He'd used the cash to stay in grimy motels, trying to find a minimum-wage job that would keep him off the streets, but to no end—everyone turned a cheek once they figured out what he'd been doing the past few years.

He supposes becoming too successful of a drug dealer was always going to wind up coming back to bite him.

There's a flurry of commotion in the bullpen, and as he looks up with faint interest, he wonders vaguely what his mother would say if she saw him now. The cell door opens, revealing a sharply-dressed detective with an annoyed expression on his face.

"Murdock," he snaps, clearly irritated. "Come with me."

Matthew gets up and follows him obediently out the door, resigned to hearing about whatever terrible charges they're going to bring against him. They walk along the walls of the bullpen and into the briefing room, and as the detective unlocks his handcuffs he notices that everyone is looking at him.

The explanation for this is clear as soon as he steps over the threshold and sees the man currently perched on a table, an expectant smile on his face.

"Hi, Matthew," the man says, extending a hand. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."

"Um, yeah," Matthew hears himself say, trying desperately to keep his knees from buckling as he shakes _Captain America's_ hand. "I know."

Steve laughs good-naturedly and stands, putting a fond hand on Matthew's shoulder as he addresses the detective. "Are we all good then, Detective? I promise this case is in good hands."

The detective mutters something under his breath, looking like he is absolutely not _all good_ , but he steps aside and lets Steve guide Matthew out the door anyway. He keeps his hand on Matthew's shoulder the entire way out of the building, relaxing it only once they come to a stop next to a black SUV.

"Get on in," Steve says, and Matthew opens the door, heart pounding. "There's water in the door, if you want some."

He walks around the vehicle before Matthew has a chance to stutter his thanks, and the kind smile on his face as he slips into the driver's seat does nothing to calm Matthew's nerves.

"So," Steve says conversationally as he pulls onto the highway, "Back to drug-dealing, huh?"

"Oh, no," Matthew stammers, trying to slow the blood crashing through his veins. "I really didn't want to, I promise—I just ran out of money, and I couldn't keep a job, and I had an old contact keep begging me to do this one deal—he said it was a big deal and I thought if I could just do it and get enough to last the month I could keep trying for a different job, and then the cops busted it, and I just—"

"Relax," Steve says, with a slight laugh. "I'm just giving you a hard time. We've actually been looking for you—Natasha had Tony set an alert for your name as soon as she could talk. So, in a way, it's actually lucky that you got arrested last night."

His words take a moment to register, but as they do, Matthew feels something jolt within his gut. "So she's okay?'

Steve's eyes flick over to him before he answers. "Yeah. She was in the hospital for a while, but she's spent the last six weeks recovering. Today's actually her first day back in the field, so this is a nice coincidence. That's why I came to pick you up—she's doing some prep work."

A hazy relief makes its way into Matthew's stomach, and he leans back into the seat, closing his eyes briefly. "She's alive."

"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "She's alive."

Matthew exhales loudly, and Steve cracks a smile. "So what happened to Loki?"

"He, uh, disappeared," Matthew mumbles, unsure what Steve wants to hear. "Gave me a bunch of cash and then left. He said he would be able to see Natasha from where he was going, but I don't know—"

"Did he say anything about his brother?"

"Um, I don't—I don't really remember, but it sounded like he was going back home, or something."

Steve hums, then looks over at him. "I actually—I wanted to thank you."

"Thank—thank me?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding slightly amused. "I know you were a big help to Natasha."

"She honestly would've been fine on her own."

Steve snorts. "She would have, yes. But she didn't have to be, and that's thanks to you."

Matthew fidgets in his seat, fingers playing with his seat belt. "She was a good friend."

"So were you, from what I hear. And friends aren't easy to come by in our line of work."

"Um, thanks," Matthew says, slightly uncomfortably. "I'm just—I'm glad she's okay."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Me too."

Matthew doesn't quite know where to take the conversation from here, and Steve seems content to let it end, so the rest of the drive passes in relative silence. It isn't until Steve pulls into a parking lot that Matthew feels compelled to speak.

"Oh, my God," he says, staring out the window. "That's the Avengers building. Like, the real one."

Steve laughs, gesturing at him to get out of the car. "Yes it is."

The two of them stroll into the building, Matthew a couple steps behind Steve, and as they step into an elevator Matthew seriously wonders if he's hallucinating.

He decides that he definitely is when the doors ding open to reveal Tony Stark himself, eyes dancing with thinly-veiled mischief.

"Hello, Captain," he says breezily, stepping aside to let them pass. "I see you've brought our guest."

"That I have," Steve says, rolling his eyes. "Care to join us?"

"Sure. I was about to go down and get some ice cream, but it can wait."

Steve turns back around, beckoning Matthew to follow him, and as they walk down an obscenely large hallway Matthew is acutely aware of Tony's presence. They stop near an unmarked door and Steve ushers him in, Tony strolling leisurely through the door behind him.

"Make yourself at home," Steve says, gesturing to the chairs scattered throughout the room. "I'll be right back."

Matthew sits in the chair closest to him, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with the multi-billionaire in the room, and only looks up when said multi-billionaire clears his throat.

"So, Matthew," Tony says casually, studying a crack in the wall, "Do you have a job?"

"Uh, no," Matthew says, embarrassment creeping up the sides of his face. "I've had a few, but I can't seem to keep one—"

"That'll have to change, won't it?"

"Uh, yes, sir," Matthew says sheepishly, wishing more than anything Steve would come back. "I know it's not an excuse, but I'm doing my best—"

"Hmm," Tony says, turning around and studying his face. "How would you like to come back to New York?"

"I—I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

He lets Matthew linger for a second, evidently stretching the moment out for his own amusement. "How would you like to intern for Stark Industries? It'd be paid, of course."

Matthew chokes out a laugh, trying desperately to seem like he isn't trying to sink into the ground. "That's a good one, sir."

"I'm not joking," Tony says, and Matthew's head snaps up. "I know drug dealing takes a certain amount of skill and intelligence to do well. You don't have a ton of experience, but that's what internships are for—I'm sure we can figure out a way for you to explore some different areas and see what you're interested in."

"I—are you serious?"

"You're a good person who's made some bad choices," Tony says, suddenly serious. "I know what that's like. And I know how important it is to have a support system to help lift you back up. Any opportunity I get to help people like you find the path that's right for them, I take."

Matthew stares at him, certain that at any moment he's going to crack a grin and laugh at him for being so gullible.

Instead, Tony purses his lips. "You don't have to decide right now, of course. I know it's a big commitment, and you've been through a lot the last couple months, so if you want some time to think about it—"

"I don't," Matthew interrupts, incredulity in every word. "I would be the biggest idiot in the world to turn this down, I—thank you, I don't even know what to say—"

Tony grins. "Perfect. I'll have Pepper get the paperwork together. In the meantime, since I know finding last-minute housing in New York is the biggest pain in the ass, you can just stay here—"

"I—sorry, _here_?"

"Yes," Tony says, the amusement flickering back into his eyes. "Here. I _do_ own this building, you know."

"I—I don't even know how I can ever repay you for this."

"Through your work," Tony says evenly, extending a hand towards him. "Do something good for this world."

Matthew wipes his hand on his jeans before reaching it out, praying that it isn't as sweaty as it feels. "I won't let you down, I promise."

Tony smirks. "I hope not. That would be very embarrassing for Romanoff, as she has spoken _very_ highly of you and your capabilities."

"She—she has?"

"Of course," Tony says, walking towards the door with the air of someone about to unveil a huge surprise. "But you could also ask her to make sure." He opens the door with a flourish, and Matthew's heart nearly leaps out of his chest.

Natasha is smirking at him, her arms crossed over her chest, and he gets up so quickly he knocks his chair over. She laughs as he scrambles across the room towards her, and when she hugs him he feels like he is actually going to pass out there and then.

"Mr. Stark just offered me a job," he manages, because his brain is malfunctioning and it's the first thing he thinks of.

"I know," Natasha laughs. "I told you I wasn't going to leave you behind."

He feels like crying, for some reason, so he pulls back and takes a deep breath. "I'm so glad you're okay, I didn't know—"

"I know," Natasha says, her hand still on his arm. "I know, sorry—I didn't know how to reach you, I figured you didn't have your phone anymore—"

"Yeah, Loki made me get rid of it and get a burner."

"Smart choice. Good for him."

"And then he just disappeared—"

Steve snorts from his position behind Natasha, and Matthew jumps, just noticing his presence. "Yeah, he does that. He's faked his own death to get away from his brother before."

"Wow, Rogers," Tony says loftily, stepping forward. "You really know how to kill a moment."

Natasha snorts, and the sound makes Matthew grin.

"Sorry," Steve says, smiling slightly. "But the two of us need to go—Natasha's getting briefed. First mission back today." He sounds distantly proud, and Matthew's heart swells a little. "We just wanted to stop by, check in, let you two reunite. Are you staying here for the time being?"

"Yeah," Matthew says, nodding. "Yeah, uh, Mr. Stark was nice enough to let me."

Natasha grins. "Nice. I'll see you after we're done, then."

"Yeah. In the meantime, I'll show him to his room, let him get comfortable," Tony says, laying a hand on Matthew's shoulder that feels oddly paternal.

Natasha and Steve leave with a hug and a handshake, respectively, and as Matthew turns toward the window to watch them walk past it, he sees Steve swing an arm loosely around Natasha's shoulder. She laughs, looking up at him, and the affection and contentment in her eyes let his entire body relax.

"It's really over," he says, almost to himself. "She's okay, and it's over."

"It's really over," Tony says gently from behind him. "And you're gonna be okay too."

"Yeah," Matthew says, turning back around. "I think I am."

…

It has been a long, long time since Natasha has felt this excited for a mission briefing.

Her entire body is restless, and as she walks toward the briefing room, Steve at her side, her thoughts are solely focused on the potential for some much-needed hand-to-hand combat.

Fury is waiting for them inside, a flash drive in his hand.

"Good afternoon, you two. I have word from a CI that a bunch of former mafia members are going to make a move on our Secretary of Labor as she visits the Four Seasons Hotel. Your job is to stop it."

Natasha nods. "Seems straightforward enough."

"All the information you need," Fury says, holding out the flash drive, "is on here. Building blueprints, what we know of their plans, the Secretary's itinerary. Should be a fairly easy job."

"Great," Natasha says, taking the drive. "We'll be there."

Fury makes a noise of assent as he moves past her, pausing as he reaches the door. "Agent Romanoff," he says, looking back at her. "Welcome back."

She nods, then turns back to Steve as the door closes. They walk towards the computer together, the flash drive in her hand practically jumping to be plugged in.

She takes a deep breath as they stop in front of the screen, exhaling as she turns to look at her partner.

"You're ready," he says. It's not a question.

"Always am." She spins the flash drive between her fingers. "Are you, though?"

"When I'm working with you, Agent Romanoff? Always."

She rolls her eyes, a slight amusement finding its way into her voice. "Do you feel, like, a little déjà vu? It feels kind of like that time we were all alone in that army bunker, about to confront the creepiest version of Zola I have ever seen."

"It does," he says thoughtfully. "Kind of."

"Maybe I'm just being nostalgic."

"I don't fault you for it," Steve says, almost playfully. "That was a good time." He pauses.  
"Actually, it was horrible, but we wouldn't be where we are today without it."

"Exactly," she nods, uncapping the flash drive. "We had no idea that what we were about to uncover would change our lives forever. Like, this drive could also contain world-altering information."

Steve snorts. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"I'm just trying to set the mood," Natasha says, bending down and inserting the drive. She straightens up as the screen comes to life, her mouth twisting into a wry smile.

He's already looking at her when she turns back towards him, and the witty quip she was about to hit him with dies in her throat at the intensity in his eyes.

His lips quirk into a smile as he tilts his head toward the screen. "Shall we?"

"Yeah," she says, squaring her shoulders. "Let's do this."

 **End Notes:**

oh god I have so much to say

this is my first ever major work of fiction and I honestly can't even believe that it's over. I started this fic about a year ago with the sole intention of improving my prose. and while that goal has definitely been achieved (I feel like you can trace the improvement through this fic—I can't read the first few chapters now without wanting to die), I never imagined just how much this fic would give me.

thank you to everyone who's reading this right now—you stuck with this fic 'til the end, even through my erratic posting schedules, and I cannot tell you how much it means to me that people want to read the words I write.

thank you to anyone who's ever favorited this or left a review—I can't tell you how much I look forward to them! even though I know that numbers and statistics don't define a work's worth, my heart still did a little ! every time I got one, because it means that you enjoyed it enough to take the time to let me know.

thank you to those of you who found me on tumblr because of this fic—you are the tightest of this makeshift community I have built myself through this piece, and I treasure each and every one of you SO much. ( stolethekey. gonna plug it.)

this is definitely not the end for me; I am so excited to continue growing as a writer and whether you read every fic I'm ever going to write or completely stop reading my work after this I am so thankful that you have chosen to join me for any length of this journey.

thank you, thank you, thank you. see you next time.


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